


The Shark Heart

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: (i was just trying to write "ocean" but saw the tag "ocean sex" and had to use it), Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Fingering, Animal Traits, Awkward Conversations, Background Character Death, Blood and Violence, Cheating, Coitus Interruptus, Daryl is not human, Daryl wants to be a good friend, Eric's life sucks let's be real, Falling In Love, First Time, Friendship, Harm to Children, Human Experimentation, Jesus is a good friend, Jesus questions his life choices, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Medical Experimentation, Minor Character Death, Ocean Sex, Oral Sex, Orcas are dicks, Pseudoscience, Sharks, Slow Burn, Teeth, Violence, Virgin Daryl Dixon, awkward naming of sex organs, educational talks, here's where the shark attack tag makes a reappearance, mentioned substance abuse/addiction, really big fish, shark attack, shark mating behaviors, the bad guy is really damn bad, threat of sexual assault, vegetable abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-09-28 12:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 173,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: There are things Daryl Dixon is good at: swimming, hunting, communicating with sharks. There are also things he's no good at: social interactions, full-on smiles, fashion and, as he soon finds out, romance. Luckily, he doesn't need the latter in his job at the aquarium complex ran by the Alexandria Marine Life Research and Preservation Institute in Virginia Beach, where he takes care of a pair of sharks and sometimes acts as the tour guide. Until he meets Rick Grimes during one of the tours, and his life takes a turn he didn't expect.Unfortunately, he's about to find out that there are always bigger fish in the sea, even when you're a Great White shark.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As some of you noticed, this story was deleted after I first posted it. I got some anon hate over it on Tumblr and it made me doubt my writing abilities. But to be honest, I loved this story, I put a lot of work into research for it, and also I've got a weakness for sharks like it's not even funny. So here's the rewritten version.   
Major changes for those who remember the previous version:  
\+ linear timeline instead of time jumps  
\+ change in length of the story to accommodate the new plot lines
> 
> I'm sorry I deleted it before, this won't happen again.  
Also, the story will be updated three times a week or more, depending on my editing speed.

Daryl Dixon closes the door behind him, turns the key in the lock, then stretches his limbs and ties his hair into a low ponytail which helps keep his vision clear. He probably should’ve cropped his hair a long time ago or let Carol cut it for him because it’s in the way, but he can’t really be bothered. He just makes sure it’s tied back whenever he needs it out of the way. Like now. Then he undresses quickly and puts on the standard navy blue bodysuit with the logo of the Institute: a black outline of a generic shark on a white circular background, surrounded by the curved inscription of  _ Alexandria Marine Life Institute _ . He doesn't bother with the rest of the diving gear: the oxygen tanks, the mask or even the swim fins. He's got no need for any of that. Even the bodysuit is a concession, a deal he made long ago with Aaron who's very adamant about not letting him do this naked. Daryl sincerely doesn't understand why, it’s not like anyone’s going to be watching him or anything, and even if anybody were watching him, it wouldn’t bother  _ him _ at all; he can’t be held responsible for other people being bothered. He still agreed to the compromise because Aaron and Eric have done so much for him already over the years. It’s not like making a concession here and there is too much of an effort. The bodysuit is comfy, anyway, hugs his body just right without squeezing anything vital, so it’s not that big a deal.

He grabs the heavy bucket of frozen, slowly melting fish and makes his way towards the top floor. Most people rarely go there at this hour of the evening. The staircase leads to the personnel-only room housing a small saltwater pool above the fondly dubbed  _ Biter Tank _ where the two Great Whites dwell. The pool is an extension of the giant aquarium, separated from it by a firm, wide eye net made of stainless steel. It's one of the locations the food is delivered from at feeding times. Daryl sits at the edge of the pool, lets his legs submerge in the cold water, and empties the bucket into the deep. He watches as the pieces of fish float down slowly to the bottom of the pool and pass the eyes of the net. It's not much, certainly not enough to fill a Great White's stomach, but then again, nothing ever is. And anyway, Daryl isn't here for feeding. Dinner was about an hour ago. This is more of a snack.

It takes a few long moments, but Daryl waits patiently, humming softly. There’s a girlie song stuck in his head, one which he heard yesterday at the cafeteria, on the radio. He chuckles to himself, remembering the lyrics, something about kissing in the rain and it being so very wild.  _ People are ridiculous _ , he thinks, rolling his eyes in exasperation. 

He notices there's still half a tuna left in the bucket. He picks it up and takes a bite. He makes a face; deep frozen fish is nothing short of disgusting in comparison to fresh. It’s got no taste. Still, food is food, and he won't complain. There was a time in his life when he didn’t dare to even dream of going to sleep on a full stomach; scavenging whatever he could from garbage cans and hunting small animals in the woods only got him so far. He’s not in that place anymore, but he won’t forget what it’s like to go hungry. He’s gonna appreciate the stupid frozen fish. He’s got a lot to appreciate, here at the Institute; a lot to be grateful for.

He finishes the piece just in time to see the big dark shape looming in the depth beneath him. Licking his fingers, he pushes the bucket further back from the edge of the pool and lowers himself into the water.

He breathes out and submerges himself fully, then takes in as much water into his lungs as he can in one big gulp. For the first few seconds, it hurts like hell, and he thrashes, his body fighting the sensation of drowning. Then, almost just as soon as it comes, the pain stops and Daryl breathes easy again. The sting of saltwater in his eyes is gone, too. He smiles at the feeling of being  _ home _ , at the electrical impulses travelling down his spine as he senses every movement below, and he swims towards the bottom of the pool. There’s a trap door lodged in the net, one only a select few people know about. Daryl is one of those people. Actually, Daryl’s the sole reason the secret entrance is even there. Nobody else ever uses it. Not the cleaning crew, nor the scientists, certainly not any of the fools who pay for shark diving or some such shit. Nope. This door is for Daryl's benefit only.

He opens the hatch with the latest lock code and swims down. He locks it back just in case, though he doesn’t think anyone would be foolish enough to follow him into a shark tank. He heads down towards the immense dark shape in the water beneath him. Even from the distance, he can already recognize Henry, the male Great White, all twelve feet of him a sight of majestic beauty. Lydia is even bigger, almost sixteen feet of alpha female. She’s off exploring the shallower side of the tank and probably won’t come back to play tonight, because yesterday she found a fat piece of pork the feeders dropped there as a treat. She’s probably hoping there’s more where that came from. She’s stubborn; she won’t be around until she gives up that hope, unless Daryl asks her specifically to come.

Daryl swims towards Henry, making sure to let him know who he is before his old friend tries to bite him by mistake. He smiles in reply to Henry's signaled inquiry about his well-being, then gently pats the shark's nose in greeting. This kind of exchange, including the touch, is not normal between sharks, but it’s customary between Daryl and his two Great White friends. He taught them new sorts of touches and gestures because he doesn’t have all the flexibility required to employ the full potential of shark body language, and he probably wouldn’t survive a lot of their usual biting communication. Instead, they make do with what is available and doable for someone with an osseous skeleton.

They swim around for a while, catching the majority of the fish Daryl's thrown in. Daryl lets Henry have most of the food; he's not particularly hungry after tonight's dinner at Aaron and Eric's place. He tells Henry all about the spaghetti with meatballs in their non-vocal way of communication, comprised of a custom version of the American Sign Language adapted to be simpler and to work fluidly underwater, combined with soft humming sounds which vibrate in the water for their electromagnetic sensors to interpret, and the movement of jaws, limited as it is for Daryl. He’s amused when Henry just stares at him, jaw open wide, tail swishing lazily, like he's trying to tell him he’s a fool for liking  _ human food _ more than good old-fashioned fish or seal.

_ Well, don’t recall y’all had much complaints about ‘em beef steaks I brought ya the other night, _ Daryl thinks in amusement, swimming faster to catch a particularly fat piece of tuna he then throws into Henry's immense jaws. 

Because Great White sharks are perfectly capable of rolling their eyes like humans do, and because Daryl taught him what it means when humans do it, Henry does roll his eyes at Daryl’s playful and immature behavior. He chomps down on the food he’s given and nudges Daryl's belly with his nose, making him laugh. He's an affectionate fellow, Henry, when he forgets all about his posturing. Daryl grins and bites him fondly on the side fin. His teeth aren't nearly as big or sharp as a Great White's, although they are pointier than an average human's, serrated in a distinctly Great White-like pattern and, well, there are two visible rows of them, only one of them retractable; it’s something Aaron had some trouble getting over the first time he saw them a few years ago. Daryl admits it must be a little disconcerting for other mammals to see the teeth of an apex predator growing uncannily in the mouth of someone who otherwise looks mostly harmless. The teeth were such a shock to the poor guy, he didn’t notice the dark blue pupils of Daryl’s eyes until a few months later on a particularly sunny day when the light hit Daryl’s eyes just right and revealed how they were not quite human either. Like many other characteristics of Daryl’s species, the eyes are easier to miss than the teeth. People tend to get hanged up on the teeth.

He tells as much to Henry, gestures to his tiny human jaws and indicates how even that can seem creepy to some even though it’s just laughable in the depths. He chuckles when the shark gives him an equivalent of a shrug, like he wants to say  _ Humans, right? _

They swim to the coral reef in the northern part of the tank where Daryl does his best to convince Henry it's not a good idea to test bite any of the moray eels  _ again _ . He reminds him of the last time he tried and got sick for days. Sharks, like most fish in general, aren't the best at the whole  _ responsible thinking _ thing, and the ability to discern logical chains of events isn't the most developed skill they have, so Daryl's kind of serving as the voice of reason for his Great White friends. It's a bit like he's their parent, teaching them things, and they sort of treat him like it even though they are both adults and don’t really need the guidance. If Lydia were here, she'd nuzzle his face with her nose like she were his pup, easily giving up her leadership position even though Daryl isn’t a female or even half her size. Henry doesn't usually show fondness so obviously besides a few nudges here or there because he likes to be independent. Honestly, Henry is about as threatening and domineering as a baby cat shark by nature, but the same nature still demands he keeps up the impression of a lone alpha predator of the deep even here in the Biter Tank. Sharks really are all about appearances and posturing, regardless of whether it’s needed or not. 

In the wild, Great Whites are rather solitary beyond the mating season. They spend their lives hunting and swimming, always hungry and always in motion. Their interactions are scarce and equally likely to end in carnage as they are to be friendly. Here, in the Biter Tank, it's pretty much the same with the one notable exception: Daryl swims with them. His presence makes all the difference. It's why the Alexandria Institute succeeded where no other facility ever could: the two sharks in the tank eventually acclimated to living in captivity without too much of a fuss when their species is known as almost impossible to keep in human-made conditions, and they didn’t end up tearing each other apart. They’re as friendly as two Great Whites can be with one another outside of the mating season.

He and Henry, they continue to swim around the reef, taking turns chasing each other in the absence of any hunt-worthy prey. Daryl can tell Henry misses real food he could catch by himself. Something he would have to actually work for like a real predator for once. He can sympathize. Just the thought of catching a fat, juicy seal makes his mouth water even though he’s never participated in that kind of hunt in his life and probably wouldn’t know how to go about it. He wishes it were possible to have access to that in the aquarium, but alas, Aaron told him in no uncertain terms that it's absolutely not going to happen for as long as he lives and breathes.

“It's not a slaughterhouse, Daryl, it's a place of education where parents bring their children to see marine life,” the man explained patiently and, much to Daryl's disappointment, he didn't even agree to a few dolphins a month, regardless of how pretty Daryl tried to smile at him or how convincingly he told him how dolphins were all insufferable bastards anyway. 

“No murder in the tanks, Daryl, or so help me,” Aaron warned.

Licking his lips, Daryl swims out of Henry's reach when the shark attempts to nip lightly at his leg. It’s unbelievable how careful Henry can be with his teeth, like he understands that his normal biting behavior would likely irrevocably hurt this strange, weak creature that’s sort of like a shark but mostly not. Daryl smiles and swims upwards, then swoops down on Henry and latches onto his dorsal fin with his hands and teeth, signaling to him to swim as fast as he can. The rush of water against his body is amazing and Daryl feels free like he never does on land. 

The thought of the ocean fills him with longing. He'd only ever swam in the endless depths once, many years ago, when he was but a tiny pup himself, barely more than a newborn. It was well before Merle went and accidentally killed some kid at the school he attended. Just the once he felt the rush and the calling of the true deep, but Daryl still misses it. He wonders, sometimes, what would happen if he just left the life on land altogether. Would he survive out there in the deep wilds, without human food, with his inferior physique that could so easily be mistaken for prey by other sharks? With his skeleton stiff and unable to take the high pressures of the deep, his teeth like a pitiful parody of the real thing and his blood warm in his veins, a mammal in all but a few irrelevant details?

Henry snorts, throws Daryl off and nudges him in the side with his nose, successfully dismantling his fantasy of the wide seas. The shark points towards the pieces of frozen fish floating down from above, another treat coming their way. Because it’s not from Daryl, they both know this time the fish is supposed to signal the end of their fun together. Daryl shakes his head, disappointed. He hasn't noticed the passage of time. He got lost in the sensation of floating, in the thoughts flowing freely through his head, as always when he’s down here. If he could, he would rather swim for  _ days _ instead of the meager two-three hours a night before dawn, but of course he can't. If anyone saw him: the morning shift staff coming up to feed the fish, the outside cleaners or the early visitors, there would be questions and unnecessary exposure, and - well, nobody wants that to happen.

Daryl says goodbye to Henry in their way, nips him on the dorsal fin and pats him on the nose, scratches his rough skin behind the pectoral fin. The shark scoffs and pushes him bodily forward, and Daryl laughs, catches a whole tuna with his teeth; he shows it off, proudly,  _ hey, look at me, the mighty hunter,  _ and then swims up without looking back because if he does look back, he probably won’t have enough willpower to leave just yet.

Snorting, he passes the trap door and climbs up the ladder to the edge of the pool, the tuna he caught still in his mouth. He chokes on the surface air, too dry, too rich in oxygen, and the fish falls from his mouth. He catches it in his hands and looks at Aaron who rolls his eyes at him, face scrunched up in disgust.

“Really, I can understand sushi or what have you, but this is extreme,” the man informs weakly.

Daryl chuckles breathlessly as his lungs slowly adjust to the change of environment. This way around always takes longer, like his body knows living on land is not the natural state for him and it’s rebelling. He waits a moment to make sure he's not dying yet and then devours the fish. He's always starving after swimming. It takes a lot of energy, even if he feels rested and relaxed afterwards, like he’s had a good night’s sleep.

“Wanna buy me breakfast?” He asks and winks at his boss. Friend. One of those.

Aaron hums. “I might,” he agrees, “if that breakfast isn't raw fish for a change.”

“Naw, ya spoilsport. Bacon 'n eggs will do,” Daryl says graciously. He starts taking off the bodysuit, completely unbothered by Aaron's presence. He rolls his eyes when Aaron blushes and turns around. The man always does this, regardless of how many times he’s already seen Daryl naked or almost naked. He smells different when it happens, too, the mixed scents of shame and arousal coming off of him in waves. Daryl doesn't really understand how humans work in that regard, sometimes. He knows the majority of humans mate for life and that they don't always choose their mates based on their size and strength, or even their ability to produce high quality offspring. He's aware that Aaron and Eric are mates even though they are both male, knows it’s called being  _ gay _ , it happens with both males and females of the species - and he's fine with it. Like, it doesn't seem to have a point for his shark-oriented sensibilities, but it's okay, most human behaviors don't and anyway, he’s got no room to talk: his shark instincts aren’t exactly perfectly aligned with his mammalian desires, either. If sharks could be gay, he supposes that’s what he’d be. Maybe? Or not. Difficult to say because he’s never been interested in anybody, regardless of their gender. He doesn’t really think it’s going to happen, either.

He just wonders if it’s normal for the human species to be sexually aroused by somebody who isn't their mate, outside of the mating season - wait, do humans even have a mating season? Daryl hasn’t heard of any such thing, and there’s no biting involved to indicate sexual interest for humans, either. So it's probably normal to want just about anyone, anytime, he concludes, since he often smells arousal on other people, male and female, when they look at him or at each other. With their puny, blunt teeth, he knows humans don’t indulge in much biting of things anyway. It’s a wonder they can have anything done when it comes to reproduction, really, they're like little pups in a coral reef about the stuff. 

“By the way, you're flying solo on the group tour today,” Aaron informs him in a suitably apologetic tone when Daryl's dressed again. They walk out of the pool room and head to the staircase, empty buckets in hands. Daryl removes the barrette holding his hair and brushes the long strands with his fingers.

“Don’t wanna,” he says, scowling. It’s not even officially in his job description, to be a tour guide; he may have let Eric train him into the role, but that doesn’t mean he actually wants to do it. He doesn’t. He sucks at people. He’s only good with sharks.

“And I don't care,” Aaron replies firmly. “Come on. It won’t be too bad. It's mostly children and a few teachers. You know you do well with children, don't you? They love tours with you.”

“... yea,” Daryl mutters. Human pups are much more tolerable than the adults of their species. Less complicated. They like to listen. It's easier to talk at them and expect nothing back, than it is to try to talk to fully grown people who, in Daryl’s experience, generally tend to think they know better and usually want to prove that by spouting nonsense. 

“Just make sure you don't smile at them too wide,” Aaron advises, teasing. It's an obvious joke. They both know Daryl's as likely to smile at strangers as he is to suddenly turn vegan.

“If you're good today, I'll make sure there's something fresh and bloody for you and your toothy pals in the deep for tonight,” Aaron promises. “It won't be alive, but I guess freshly slaughtered pig is the next best thing?”

“Sounds perfect,” Daryl says and licks his lips. His stomach growls.

“Hah. Let's go and feed you, shark boy, before you decide to have me for breakfast, and not in a sexy way,” Aaron jokes again, and Daryl lets himself be led to the cafeteria.

The promise of food always works on a shark: they're always hungry, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating it sooner than planned because I don't know if I'll have good internet access tomorrow. Enjoy <3

Despite the extremely early hour, Carol greets the both of them with one of the brightest smiles Daryl's ever seen from her in over a decade of their friendship. She piles a generous amount of bacon and eggs on the plate she hands Daryl, well acquainted with his overwhelming morning appetite by now. Daryl can't help but notice the not-too-subtle diamond ring she's proudly wearing for the world to see.

“That from Ezekiel?” He asks, pointing to her right hand with his chin.

Carol beams, nodding in affirmation, trying to act coy but quite unable to keep it up. “He proposed to me last night,” she says and her voice vibrates with excitement.

“Woah, congratulations!” Aaron exclaims with a wide grin of his own. He’s a sucker for romantic stories and he’s a terrible gossip. Already he’s on his phone, probably texting Eric to let him know the news.

“He better make ya happy,” Daryl says, pretending to be gruff and threatening, but his lips twitch and he can't help but smile a little. 

If he had a pack - school? Colony? Whatever it’s called with sharks, though  _ pack _ sounds best - of his own, Carol would be part of it, part of his family. Not a mate though, Daryl wouldn’t bite her and definitely wouldn’t mount her; she’s more like a sibling or even a pup. He's known her a lot longer than he's known Aaron. He brought her and her daughter Sophia along when he came to Virginia Beach all that time ago. Carol's one of the few people who are aware of what he is. She calls Daryl's teeth cute and likes feeding him raw meat when he’s good. Back in the day, Daryl helped her out of a marriage to a horrible man. They’ve been inseparable ever since, and Daryl’s incredibly protective over the woman and her daughter. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill for them if need be. He almost did, once.

Professor Ezekiel King is a good man though. He's one of the scientists associated with the Alexandria Institute, a researcher involved in various fields of marine biology. He's the one in charge of Henry's well-being in the tank, and he is absolutely devoted to the job. Daryl respects him a lot. The man takes good care of his Great White ward. It stands to reason that he will take good care of Carol and Sophia as well.

If not, well. Daryl won't eat a man, but he's very capable of mangling one.

Funny thing about Carol, Daryl thinks as he eats, is that she doesn’t even work in the cafeteria at all. She’s an ichthyologist specializing in Mako sharks, one of the best in her field to reside in the States. She’s just here because she’s pissed off after one of her underage wards recently rescued off of a poaching vessel, a bigger female named Lizzie, ate another, smaller female, Mika. Daryl attempted to placate her by trying to explain that eating each other is just what sharks sometimes do in general, in captivity and outside of it too. It happens with all carnivorous shark species. Carol knows this, though. She’s still pissed off and totally done with Mako sharks for the time being.

“There's a school group coming in today,” Aaron announces, sitting down with his own plate at the bar. “Sixteen kids, not sure how old. Four adult guardians plus a teenager. They're from Atlanta, Georgia. It would be great if they had lots of fun.”

Daryl tenses and glances at Carol. She holds his gaze and shakes her head, expression mild like she’s not even ruffled by the revelation, and Daryl eventually relaxes. It’s been over ten years since the three of them - Daryl, Carol and little Sophia - took a bus out of Atlanta with nothing but the clothes on their backs, a bag of baby supplies and a couple hundred dollars in their pockets. They fled the city in a hurry after Daryl got involved in an altercation with Carol’s son-of-a-bitch ex-husband. In all of the years since, the only contact Carol had maintained with that bastard was through the divorce lawyers. She didn’t want anything from the man, just full uncontested custody over Sophia. She got it, Ed was still too scared of Daryl back when it was all in progress. 

Sometimes, Daryl worries the whole ordeal might come back to bite him in the ass. Ed Peletier isn’t a very smart man, but he’s not completely dumb. He might put two and two together one day, he might realize Carol’s savior who threatened him and nearly ripped his arm right off with his  _ teeth _ wasn’t exactly fully human.

But a school group from Atlanta is just a coincidence. Ed wouldn’t be imaginative enough to use a bunch of kids as cover if he wanted to come and stir some shit in Virginia Beach. It would be more in-character if he came directly to the Institute, shouted himself hoarse at the gates and probably ended up escorted out by the security. 

Still, Daryl can’t help being slightly apprehensive.

Aaron catches on to the tension in Daryl’s shoulders and sighs. He scratches his chin in a gesture which looks somewhat sheepish, and says: “I'll be honest here. I know what a group from Georgia means to you, I know where you’re from. I tried to discreetly block this one, but the Council voted in favor of inviting them for the extended tour. We're going to try and impress this group because Governor Blake's daughter is with them. Her name is Penny Blake. It's political, we’re officially getting political now. You know we're trying to apply for some additional funding to expand the Great White research way into next year. So, you know. Do better than your best. It's for a good cause.”

He looks very awkward in the following silence as Carol and Daryl look at him. Aaron hates making any sort of speeches, which is interesting because over the years, he sort of became the Institute’s unofficial spokesperson.

Finally, Daryl takes pity on him. “Still ain't gonna smile,” he warns and shovels a big portion of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“Wouldn't dream of it, charmer,” Aaron promises. “Just, please try not to be rude even if the kids are? You know, be professional. You can do that.”

“Yea,” Daryl agrees. “No cussin', no murder talk, no scarin’ ‘em pups too much. I get it.”

“Don't worry, Pookie. You're great with children,” Carol assures him and pats the top of his head affectionately. Anyone else who’d try that would end up short a hand. Carol is special.

“Ain't worried. Hungry though. More?” Daryl asks, handing her the empty plate.

He doesn't get why both Carol and Aaron laugh at him. He does get another serving of breakfast, so he doesn't even mind. He's a simple creature. If there's food and the prospect of carefree swimming later, he's satisfied. What else could someone like him want from life?

He ends up having four helpings of the eggs and manages to sweet-talk Carol into throwing in an extra treat in the form of a hot-dog by praising her engagement ring. Just like the sharks, he never really stops being hungry. While he’s capable of going without food for extended time frames - literal weeks, if need be - he also has the ability to devour insane amounts of food at one go. It’s connected to the opportunistic eating instinct most sharks share; because they don’t know when the next meal might be, it’s better to have as much as possible right when it’s available. Daryl’s really lucky to have such a high metabolic rate or he’d be plump like one of those seals he was daydreaming about hunting with Henry earlier. 

He’s becoming softer around the edges anyway. Might consider cutting back on the helpings. 

“Don’t worry, Pookie, you’re still pretty,” Carol assures him with a smirk when he mentions his recent weight gain. “And you’ll burn all that excess fat off when you start teaching Sophia to swim in summer.”

Daryl’s actually looking forward to that. Sophia is his favorite pup in the whole wide world. Not only is she Carol’s, and therefore Daryl’s too; he helped raise her since she was three years old. She’s also the biggest shark fan among humans. She has a whole collection of toy sharks, and she even made a stuffed Great White for Daryl last year, as a gift for that winter holiday the humans make such a fuss about. It sits proudly on Daryl’s bed. It looks nothing like a real shark and it’s got buttons for eyes, but it’s made of a scratchy linen fabric Sophia dyed by hand, and the button eyes are blue instead of black.

If anyone tried to take the toy from Daryl, he’d commit wanton murder in its defense. That’s how fond he is of Sophia.

The fact that the girl can’t swim yet is because of her father. Ed Peletier is a bastard, true, but he’s also a marine biologist like Carol. They actually met when they were both undergraduates, volunteering at a shark rescue off the coast of New Zealand for their final credits. The problem was, while Carol had always been fascinated by the large predators of the ocean, Ed’s academic pursuits always drove him towards the studies of coral reefs and their ecosystems which he felt sharks generally threatened. When Sophia was a toddler, barely old enough to understand words, Ed kept feeding her nightmare fodder about how sharks ripped people apart for fun. Showed her videos of Great Whites hunting seals, some footage of a shark attack from the eighties. Stories like that stay with pups. Sophia is thirteen now, but she still wakes up from dreams filled with entirely too many teeth sometimes, even though she knows sharks aren’t monsters intent on hurting her. 

She knows, because she’s fully aware of what Daryl is. She wears his damn tooth on a string as a necklace and tells her friends at school that it’s a totem of her shark guardian deity. Carol doesn’t mind, and Daryl isn’t afraid his secret might be revealed because of a little girl’s imagination. Like any coastal city all over the world, Virginia Beach is full of stories about sharks acting as spirit guides, protectors or carriers of vengeful spirits of people who passed away at sea. Nobody would think twice about Sophia’s shark guardian. 

He wishes Sophia could be at the Institute right now, to help with the group coming in later, but she’s away on a school trip of her own. She’s visiting Boston with her class. She was very excited about the trip which is the only reason Daryl didn’t vehemently protest her going; he’s still unhappy about having the pup so far away for three more days. 

At least he’s going to have all the time in the world to spend with her once her summer holiday begins.

“She gonna chase me ‘round the damn ocean, ain’t she?” He jokes and offers Carol a satisfied grin that fully shows off his rows of teeth.

Aaron looks slightly alarmed. “That smile, don’t do it in front of the kids. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Man, I ain’t been born yesterday,” Daryl complains. “Been hidin’ these teeth my whole life, ain’t gonna suddenly show ‘em off bein’ a happy loon. C’mon, you ain’t done even noticed ‘em in the whole first year you known me.”

“That’s… not true,” Aaron protests, frowning, but his tone isn’t so sure. That’s probably because he can recall the memory of how exactly he first found out Daryl had a mouth full of sharp teeth with serrated edges. The reveal involved a barbecue party celebrating the opening of the new shark wing at the Institute, lots of alcohol, a whole raw chicken and a very unfortunate request in a drunken game of truth-or-dare.

Daryl still thinks it could’ve been worse. He could’ve eaten the damn chicken in front of the entire staff instead of just Carol, Ezekiel, Aaron and Eric. That’s why he doesn’t drink alcohol anymore. Apparently, it affects him just the same as if he were fully human, just gets purged quicker due to his metabolism. Well, as that incident showed: it’s not fast enough. 

“Okay, you know what, Toothless,” Aaron says, and he schools his face into a stern expression that’s meant to make him seem professional. He does this when he wants to exude authority. It would probably work better if he wasn’t approximately as threatening as a baby zebra shark.

He knows this, but he bravely attempts it anyway: “Why don’t you go and get ready? Wear something decent, those scars of yours are awful distracting. Do something about your hair, it’s a mess. Maybe let Carol cut it for you?”

“He won’t,” Carol notes with a smile. “Won’t even let me touch it. It’s like he’s growing a curtain to hide that cute face of his.”

Daryl rolls his shoulders and groans in relief when his joints click audibly. “Y’all should mind yer own business,” he announces. “Gonna go take a nap or somethin’. For better digestion.”

When he gets to his tiny apartment located in the living area of the Institute, though, he realizes he’s not sleepy, so after getting dressed in something comfortable and clean, he goes outside the Institute’s walls. He does that sometimes in the early mornings to take a walk at the beach before it’s too crowded. Today he has a purpose besides a meaningless walk, however. There was a storm a few nights ago, one of the early summer storms which seem to come earlier and earlier with every passing year, like the seasons shift at a different pace than the human-made calendars give them credit for. As a result, the shoreline of the beach is littered with trash; plastic bags and bottles, old pieces of glass, fragments of fishing nets pile up, some half-buried in the sand, others in plain view. It’s disheartening.

When Daryl and Carol first arrived here in Virginia Beach, Daryl took on the job of a cleaner in the employ of the City Council. The pay was the lowest possible wage and the hours were awful, but the work was easy and, he believed, for a good cause, so Carol told him to go for it. He got fired, though, because he spent almost the entire time cleaning the beach of garbage instead of taking care of the city lawns or some other shit. Whoever’s working the cleaning job now clearly doesn’t seem to bother with the beach at all except for in the vacation season when the tourism’s at its highest. Aaron’s sent many disapproving letters regarding the matter to the municipality, but to no avail as of yet.

With a sigh, Daryl grabs a surprisingly intact plastic bag from the ground and starts picking up the pieces of trash in his closest vicinity. He wishes he could do more, but there’s only so much a guy can do in a few hours now and again. Later in the day, if their schedule allows, more people from the Institute will come out and try to sort out the mess, but at least Daryl can get started.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” A male voice asks, and Daryl looks up from his task to watch suspiciously as a man approaches from the parking lot. The stranger’s dressed in casual clothes, but Daryl’s seen enough politicians in his time at the Institute, he can tell when casual shit’s of the expensive kind. There’s a smell of luxurious perfume trailing behind the man who has some scruff and a friendly expression on his face, and Daryl immediately doesn’t like him. Just like that, his instincts tell him this guy’s no good. 

But he doesn’t react with outward hostility. He doesn’t want trouble, especially not with someone who might be influential and take it out on the Institute in some way. “‘s just how it is,” he mutters neutrally, returning his attention to picking up garbage. To his surprise, the man produces a trash bag from his pocket and begins to pick up shit as well. 

“Wha’cha doin’?” Daryl asks, squinting at the stranger. His instincts have never been wrong about people before, but… he can’t exactly ignore the fact this rich-looking asshole really is stepping up, lowering himself to an activity as mundane as picking up trash from the ground. Cleaning the beach. Like it’s something rich people just do.

“Oh, I try to come here once a week, to tidy it up a bit if I can,” the man explains, smiling at Daryl in that friendly manner which appears somewhat fake. Maybe it’s just his face. Maybe he can’t help the way it looks. “People need to start being responsible for their messes, right? The ocean’s sustaining us, but we’re doing nothing to sustain it back.”

“You some sorta green freak?” Daryl asks. He doesn’t mean it as something negative, but he’s not exactly fond of activists. They chased him away from some good hunting grounds back in Georgia, because apparently killing animals for food is cruelty and shit. If they spent half of that energy telling people not to throw their damn plastic trash into rivers and the like, that would be great. But no. That requires actual educational effort.

“Nope, nothing like that. I’m just a man with a conscience,” the stranger assures cheerfully. “Same as you, I suppose.”

Daryl grunts in reply and returns to work, not really eager to engage the stranger in further conversation. The man respects that and they both work in silence, and it’s good. Peaceful. When his trash bag is so full it’s close to bursting, Daryl notices the sun is up quite high. Means he really needs to get back. He looks around and sees the rich stranger some fifty feet away, retrieving a second trash bag from his pocket. The man nods at Daryl, grinning widely his way, and Daryl responds with a small smile of his own; instincts be damned, he thinks, because this guy? This rich asshole type who just devoted some time of his day towards cleaning up a bit of humanity’s mess? He seems way up there with the people Daryl respects and likes. 

Daryl returns to the Institute just in time to see a bus parking in front of the main entrance. He doesn’t wait to see the arrivals; he takes the door labelled  _ staff only _ and ducks into the hallway leading to the labs and office spaces. He only makes a detour at the reception ten minutes later to pick up his ID for the tour, and he waves back to Jesus who’s already surrounded with school children.

Now, normally, all tours at the Alexandria Institute are divided into two parts. The first part is more generic and aims to broaden the visitors' knowledge about all kinds of sea life. It takes around three hours in the morning. Jesus handles that part. His real name is Paul Rovia and he's Professor King's undergrad, working his ass off to earn himself a permanent position at the Institute post-graduation. He knows his shit well enough, so Daryl's practically convinced the guy's got it in his pocket. His friends call him Jesus. Daryl’s apparently his friend, too, since the dude gave him his phone number: Daryl’s been reliably informed that people give each other phone numbers when they want to be friends. So, Daryl calls the man  _ Jesus _ as well. He thinks the nickname is connected to some human religious rituals, but he can't be sure. Nobody ever tells him things and he’s not interested enough to do the research himself. He knows how to Google, but he doesn’t like to use it. Computers make him uneasy. He doesn’t even have a smartphone, just an old flip-phone that’s mostly waterproof. He doesn’t need anything more advanced.

Anyway, the tour. After the first part of the tour is concluded, there's always an hour-long lunch period in the cafeteria followed by the main attraction: the shark tour. Before, it used to be done by Aaron or, more often, his boyfriend Eric, but lately, on special occasions, they’ve been asking Daryl along to help lead groups as part of his training. Every time’s been stressful to him because he's shit at human interactions, especially when it means talking to strangers; he doesn’t think he’s especially good an entertainer, either, though that’s not something his friends seem to agree with him on.

He finds Aaron at the staff room. Not surprisingly, Eric is there with him, and he’s red in the face. Aaron is, too, actually, and the smell in the room -  _ arousal, embarrassment, want  _ \- makes Daryl think he may have interrupted something between the two of them. He feels a bit dumb, bothering them with his anxiety problems when they’re trying to get intimate, but. He really needs help dealing with his shit.

“Come with me?” He pleads, giving the men his best  _ puppy-eyed _ look. Carol tells him all the time he could melt an iceberg with this look. Eric bites his lower lip and seems ready to give in, but apparently Aaron’s made of tougher stuff than all the icebergs in the world, because he immediately shakes his head.

“Time to earn your keep, Jaws,” he says, and it’s clear from the tone that it’s meant as a joke, surely, but it sends a chill down Daryl’s spine and he suddenly feels like an ungrateful bastard. The Institute’s been so good to him. Aaron especially. After Daryl lost that job for the city, Aaron was the one who convinced the Institute’s Council to take him up as a janitor. He then kept giving Daryl more and more random jobs, most of them unrelated to cleaning, making use of Daryl’s intimate knowledge of sharks. He made those jobs part of Daryl’s official training. Because of him, Daryl isn’t listed as a janitor on the payroll anymore. He’s  _ special consultant _ , like some type of fancy science guy. Damn, his paycheck is allegedly bigger than Paul’s.

So, he’s really in Aaron’s debt and yeah, it  _ is _ time to earn his keep. So he tells himself, he’s gotta get over it. He can totally go at it alone, he’s capable of being a  _ superb  _ guide. It’s not his first tour, not really, it’s not the first time even though he’s never done it without support before, but it shouldn’t be a total disaster regardless. He knows his shit and he especially knows how to deal with pups. Sophia is a living and breathing testament to that. 

“You’ve got this, Daryl,” Eric assures him gently and, as encouragement, hands him a pastry. It’s got a raw meat filling and Daryl’s pretty sure it’s meant as a dog treat. He eats it all the same because it’s damn tasty.

“I got this, alright,” he says with much more self-confidence than he actually feels. He nods to his friends, leaves them to their stolen moments of intimacy, and heads to the shark tanks to prepare. 

At least if it goes wrong, he probably won’t be kicked out of Alexandria Institute. There are plans to try and get Henry and Lydia to mate when the season comes. For obvious reasons, Daryl’s been pretty instrumental in those plans; he’s the one who noticed there might be something to work with there, and he’s the only one who can really read the hints of interest between the two Great Whites. The subtle changes in their electromagnetic signatures, the shift in Lydia’s body temperature as she starts to get ready for the hormonal influx of the mating season, those are things even the most experienced marine biologists won’t pick up on simply because their bodies aren’t equipped with the right sensors. Daryl’s body is, even though it’s not capable of responding to those signals. And, hell, it’s going to be damn awkward for him, the whole cumbersome process is going to be a giant headache; but he knows how important it is. If the Institute’s scientists can observe the Great White shark mating rituals from up close - for the first time in the history of marine science, too - they might be able to help create better conditions for their reproduction in the natural environment. That in turn may be an incredibly important step towards rebuilding the population of the white sharks, which has been steadily dwindling at least since the eighties. 

Daryl sighs, licks his lips and brushes his hair back with his fingers to make it seem at least a bit more tame. He looks down at himself, at the dark clothes he’s wearing, and he decides he’s presentable enough. It’s time to go.

As he picks up the booklets to be handed to the participants later, he can’t help thinking how, between the tour of the aquarium and the challenge of getting two capricious giant fish to mate, the latter is less likely to end up with him eaten alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, due to the subject matter, there will be a lot of mentions of environmental issues, especially those that concern the state of the oceanic pollution and its impact on marine species. While canon Daryl probably couldn't care less about such things, I think in this story, it'd be weird if shark!Daryl didn't care about how exploitation of the oceans by humans affects sharks and their habitats...
> 
> Also, I can't wait to write Daryl-Sophia interactions. And I've got a whole chapter planned for them. Daryl with children *dreamy sigh*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tour begins~ which means a lot of my nerdy research on shark species comes into fruition.
> 
> By the way, I've never been to an actual big aquarium and I have no idea how they work. It's one of the reasons for the "pseudoscience" tag. I mean, this is my fantasy world so everything is possible, even an aquarium built like what I describe. It's still more realistic than the aquarium scene in Aquaman ;)

Daryl waits at the foyer for his group to gather. Apparently, just like Aaron said, the grand majority of the group are school-age pups guarded closely by their grown-up chaperones. The pups look younger than Sophia by a few years, two or three at most. There are four adults - two males, two females - and one more female who Daryl thinks may be barely out of her pup years, judging by her small size and the way she gravitates towards one of the adult females for emotional support, just like a pup clamoring for the attention of her momma, or a younger sibling.

Observation is allegedly one of Daryl’s stronger suits, even if he can’t always interpret what he sees the right way due to his social ineptitude. Thankfully, Jesus messaged him just a few minutes ago with some details he thought essential about the group, like which of the pups are loud and may get easily distracted (the boy with the red backpack and the twin girls holding hands), how the adults react to jokes and anecdotes (quite well, with the exception of the long-haired, thin woman in the back who just doesn’t seem interested in the tour at all), who is the hottest adult of the group (whatever it means, but it’s apparently one of the male’s who’s got  _ the most soulful sky-blue eyes and the cutest curly hair ever _ . Jesus’ words. He tends to be very poetic in descriptions of men who grab his attention). 

Daryl introduces himself and gives away the booklets detailing all steps of the tour. The brochures also contain instructions on how to make paper sharks, including fold lines on the last page. It’s part of the campaign to make the tour even more attractive to the public; tourists generate money and money allows the Institute to actually conduct their research. Unfortunately, the government grants and private sponsors aren’t really enough to sustain everything the Institute does for the protection and education on the local and global marine life. In spite of the fact nearly half of the staff are volunteers, despite the burgeoning tourism, the aquarium is almost always in the red. Daryl’s not an expert, but he thinks it’s bullshit. It’s just like that business with the beach cleaning, but worse. Aaron, Professor King, people like Carol and Eric, even Jesus, they all do important shit here. They shouldn’t have to worry about stupid crap like energy and water bills, searching for alternative, cheaper food vendors or producing tons of useless documentation for the entertainment of some sad fucker on in administration. Isn’t it funny how politicians always have money for new cars and shit, but when it comes to protecting the oceans or doing great stuff for science, suddenly there’s no money left at all?

It’s a topic for another day and another audience, though.

“Welcome to the Alexandria Marine Life Research and Preservation Institute’s shark tour,” he announces in what he hopes comes across as an enthusiastic tone. 

“Now, first things first. At one point of the tour, we gonna be walkin' past the divin' tank with a real tough guy livin’ there, so be sure to keep yer hands to yerselves,” he warns the group. It’s customary to say this before the tour begins, though Daryl is the only one who adds an interesting little twist to the warning: “Ya knock on the glass an’ that guy's gonna break out, jaws open wide. That happen, yer all shark food.”

He winks and the pups actually look excited at the prospect. Most pups he’s met get excited when he mentions the possibility of someone dying to a shark attack, however impossible the attack in question is in real life. Daryl attributes this to the morbid curiosity all humans exhibit when it comes to gruesome deaths. He’s pretty certain that’s why horror movies tend to feature monsters with sharp claws and rows upon rows of teeth. It also explains their popularity with people of all ages.

Daryl lets the group enter ahead of him into the first room of the shark tour. Something smells nice in there. He can’t pinpoint the source or even the kind of scent he’s caught, just that it’s very pleasant. He wonders if maybe he’s hungry again. Huh. Well, he is, he almost always is, but. It’s not that? It’s not food, this new scent. Though it does make him want to bite down on… things. He doesn’t know.

He tries and ignores the smell for now. He has to make a good impression. For Aaron and for politics.

“To yer left's the so called Blue Tank. Name's not 'cause of its color or anythin'. Them scientists around here jus' like to name stuff after random items they see or somethin’. Guess we’re lucky it’s not called something strange, like Table Tank or Notepad Tank, or nothin’ like that, ” he says and the pups all giggle. The little joke’s all the funnier because it's true: there's no reason for the tank to be called what it is other than the whim of whoever named it first. Some names for the tanks make sense. Others, not so much. There is actually a Bookshelf Tank in the part of the aquarium not visited during the tours. It’s mainly used for temporary housing of violent specimens before a decision can be made whether to release them into the wild or try to reintroduce them to the artificial environment. Currently, Carol’s Mako ward, Lizzie, resides in there awaiting judgement day. 

“Blue Tank here's home to many species, but the most interestin’, the one we’re gonna look at closely, is the blacktip reef shark. Y’all can see five of ‘em lil' bastards in there. They’re all young'uns, ‘bout three feet long each. Normally, they get to be twice that length. We gonna move 'em to a big habitat or release ‘em to the ocean when they grow up, though, so they don’t go eatin' one another.”

“They can do that?” A boy asks and his blue eyes go wide like saucers. The visitor’s name tag on his breast pocket reads  _ Carl _ . He’s got a Shark Lovers pin on his backpack, and Daryl can see one of the local gift shop’s shark plushie keychains attached to the boy’s belt loop.

He smirks a little crookedly, careful not to show teeth. “Yup,” he replies. “Many shark species go 'round eatin' their own. 's just how things are in the deep. No manners whatsoever. But mostly, blacktip reef sharks eat fish or small cephalopods. Like, calamari 'n stuff. Wanna see me feed 'em?”

He sees the pups nod their heads in excitement and he grabs the bucket of fish he had prepared specifically for this occasion just before the tour began. He climbs the ladder to the top of the tank and opens the latch. He checks the watch; it's close enough to the normal feeding time, so he overturns the bucket to throw the chopped up fish into the tank. He closes the latch and climbs back down, then stands to the side as the pups gather in front of the glass to observe the eating sharks. They take photos and Daryl really doesn’t want to end up in any pictures. His eyes catch the light differently than human eyes do, and it shows clearly on photos. He doesn’t want to make anyone suspicious.

“You don't strike me as a typical tour guide,” says one of the adults with the group, a man with bright blue eyes, stubbly cheeks and a friendly, open expression on his face. Daryl guesses he’s the one Jesus dubbed  _ the hottest _ because, in addition to the blue of his eyes, his hair indeed curls at the nape of his neck. He comes to stand next to Daryl, smiling, and doesn't seem to be particularly interested in the spectacle of bigger fish eating smaller fish.

Daryl frowns. It’s the second time today he’s being approached by a stranger for no particular reason. At least his instincts don’t blare alarm horns about this one, but Daryl’s still a bit suspicious of the man’s motives for bothering him. 

He’s also surprisingly hungry for someone who had such a big breakfast. He’s positively salivating.

He swallows down the excess spit and licks his lips with just the tip of his tongue. “What do I strike you as, then?” He asks, rising an eyebrow and leaning against the wall, attempting to project the aura of indifference in place of the nervousness he’s actually feeling.

The man chuckles. “Well, dunno. Could've been a rock star, maybe, you know, with the long hair, leather vest and tattoos. Or perhaps a biker. Something cool. Certainly not a plain old guide in a scientific place like this.”

“I like it here,” Daryl says, shrugging, not even overly defensive. “Like 'em fish. They ain’t much talkative.”

He expects his curt remark to deter the man from further interaction, but alas, the stranger's not giving up on small talk. He actually laughs at Daryl's somewhat rude response, confirming that he got the hint and immediately chose to ignore it. He holds out a hand expectantly.

“Name’s Rick Grimes,” he introduces himself. The way he smiles, it’s completely different to the rich asshole at the beach. There’s nothing fake in his face. He looks eager and earnest, and there are lines at the corners of his eyes, shallow crinkles, like he smiles and laughs a lot; and when he does, when he smiles right now, it brightens his entire face, goes all the way up to his eyes like he’s genuinely filled with joy.

Regardless, Daryl doesn't offer his own hand. He doesn't touch strangers, even intriguing, happy strangers. He barely touches any of his friends, unless said friends happen to be covered in skin teeth and only breathe underwater. Why is touching each other so important to humans, anyway? They do it all the fucking time. Daryl doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t care if it seems rather ill-mannered of him, he doesn’t shake the man’s hand. He just nods in grudging acknowledgment. “You want somethin', Rick Grimes?” He asks, narrowing his eyes. He really sucks at common pleasantries, everyone always tells him that and they’re right. It’s not for the lack of trying. He’s just out of his depth. Like with most humans, Daryl can't get a read on this man and he doesn't understand his intentions. Body language is extremely important for sharks, but it’s completely different from the way humans wordlessly communicate between each other. Without being able to interpret gestures and looks and  _ things _ , how is Daryl supposed to act around a stranger who talks to him for no reason at all? 

He’s just here to lead the tour, and he’s pretty sure there’s no  _ interactive _ sign above his head or anything. This shit never happened when he was helping Eric or Aaron. People are supposed to pay attention to the fish, not to him, for fuck’s sake, he’s not half as interesting as the sharks occupying the water tanks.

Fortunately, he's saved from further awkward attempts at conversation when the sharks finish eating. Obviously the one bucket of fish is not enough to fill their bellies, not even close, but it’s fine, they’ll be fed later. Anyway, most sharks aren’t advanced enough thinkers to be able to tell if it’s feeding time or not. Just like Daryl, they’re all opportunistic eaters. If food is present, they’ll eat. If it’s not, they’re going to swim around and look for it with a single-minded focus easily afforded to fish.

Daryl gathers the group and leads on. The next step of the tour brings them to the low and wide tank with the nurse sharks and moray eels. He doesn't pay much attention to the eels, though, simply mentions they’re there. They're just a space filler, something to make the tanks seem closer to the natural environment. There’s barely anything interesting about eels either way. Plus they're stupid and kind of toxic, as evidenced by Henry getting sick a few days ago when he tried biting one. 

Nurse sharks are marginally less boring, Daryl thinks.

“Ain't my favorites, 'em ugly babies,” he says to his audience. “Nasty lil' biters if ya let 'em. Slow though, can’t do much damage to anything bigger than a herring. They look for prey in the sand and make this weird noise like sucklin' on their mamma's teats. Some says it’s maybe how they got their name,  _ nurse _ from like, nursery, not like hospital nurses or anythin’. Also heard it's from some old word for cat, though. Ya know, their other name’s cat shark because of 'em whiskers. Makes for one ugly cat, innit?”

“They’re kinda cute,” a girl says, smiling as she presses her face against the tank. She’s wearing subtle metal braces adorned with colorful rubber bands on her teeth. 

“For a girl, maybe,” the boy named Carl tells her, rolling his eyes. “Will we see any badass sharks? With big teeth and stuff? Dad said you’ve got some real huge sharks here.”

“Carl, don’t be rude to Penny, and be patient,” says Rick Grimes. Daryl looks at them both thoughtfully. He’s pretty sure the boy is Rick Grimes’ pup. He can see the family resemblance, though the boy’s eyes aren’t nearly the level of blue his supposed father’s are. It’s a weird thing to notice, shades of blue of some random man’s eyes. Huh. Must be because of Jesus’ description in the text message earlier.

The little girl with braces smiles again, and Carl apologizes to her quickly before looking at Daryl like he’s hoping he won’t have to apologize to him, too.

And Daryl feels gracious. “’s fine. He’s just curious ‘bout them big fish, ain’cha?” He offers the pup a nod. “Yer gonna like the next one, then. C’mon, follow me everyone. There’s someone special y’all gonna meet now.”

The group eagerly follows Daryl to the next room which is one of the most interesting in the entire Oceanarium, as far as the typical tourist is concerned. Three entire walls are made up of the glass of one of the bigger tanks, almost six million gallons. The inside imitates a pirate ship wreckage overgrown with one of the most beautiful coral populations Daryl’s ever seen in an artificial environment, all grown courtesy of Tara Chambler, their resident ocean floor architect. The inhabitants of the tank are varied; the typical coral reef dwellers are abound, of course, hundreds of colorful fish with glimmering scales, and there’s a small family of stingrays living inside the wreck. But the main attraction of the aptly-dubbed Pirate Tank is the oceanic whitetip shark who’s lived there for the last couple of months.

The timing couldn’t be any more perfect. The shark’s swimming right by the front glass wall when the group arrives in front of the tank.

“His name’s Captain Flint,” Daryl introduces. “And he belongs to the meanest species of shark y’all ever gonna meet. Oceanic whitetip. Looks purdy enough, right? See his dorsal fin with ‘em white spots? That how we recognize his species. Is a real opportunistic bastard, the whitetip. Eats anythin’, fish like tuna or mackerel, octopi, sea turtles, birds that ain’t careful enough. Also whale poop,” he adds conspiratorially and smirks, a tiny closed-mouth grimace in the corner of his lips, when the pups make disgusted faces and noises.

He walks up to the platform in front of the glass and continues, “Now y’all wanna know why old Flint’s buddies are considered real bad meanies?” He asks and looks down on the group. The pups all stare at him in anticipation of the sufficiently bloody tale.

“It’s because they tend to follow boats ‘n ships. And when ships sink? Them big bastards ain’t waste no time. Can’t let all that meat escape from under their noses, can they? So they go into this thing called  _ feedin’ frenzy _ . There‘s an estimate says oceanic whitetip sharks are responsible for the majority of ‘em fatal shark attacks ever happened. Thing is, they ain’t recorded as official shark attacks because they ain’t resultin’ from sharks comin’ close to shores, ‘s why y’all ain’t normally hearin’ about it.”

Daryl isn’t surprised when the pups look up at Captain Flint with a healthy mix of respect, awe and terror. The adults appear to be more shaken and uncomfortable. Too bad. If they wanted something vanilla, they shouldn’t have brought the pups to what’s basically known as  _ the shark place _ . And well, sharks aren’t exactly fluffy or cute, at least not to most humans that Daryl knows about. They sure can be adorable to  _ him _ , even when they act all prickly and dumb to upkeep their social hierarchy.

“Did Captain Flint ever eat someone?” Asks a small boy with a blue backpack.

Daryl shakes his head. “Not that we know of, anyway. He‘s quite a young’un, this one, not even five feet long yet when his species typically grow to eight, sometimes even ten feet. He was only caught ‘cause he was injured, probly test bitten by a Great White who then thought he was yucky ‘n left him be. As y’all know, Alexandria Institute doubles as a shark hospital, so Captain Flint was done brought here and liked us well enough to stay some. If y’all look closely, you can see the scars where he got bitten ‘tween the tail and dorsal fin.”

As if on cue, the shark chooses that exact moment to swim close by again and the pups all strain their eyes to see what Daryl’s talking about. He tries to point at where the white gashes from the incident are best visible, but he knows it’s not that easy to spot in the relatively dark water in the tank. He saw the scars from up close when he examined Flint earlier this year, soon after his capture; he’s the one who confirmed the shark was most definitely bitten by a Great White, likely a big female, not as a predation attempt but a simple accident during a feeding frenzy. There must’ve been a whale carcass the sharks met and interacted at. Flint wouldn’t have survived a predatory attack from a female this size, judging by the bite marks.

“Why the name?” Asks the teenage girl accompanying the adults. She’s got big eyes and light hair, and she’s looking at Daryl like she thinks he might be a compatible mate. She doesn’t smell any different than her companions, though, not like the adults who’d expressed their interest in Daryl as a potential mate in the past. It’s possible she isn’t sexually mature yet. She’s doesn’t seem much older than Sophia, and her mannerisms around the others do suggest she’s still considered a pup by her environment. 

It means little. Daryl wouldn’t be interested in biting her even if she were an adult. Whatever  _ type _ he has, the young fair-haired girl isn’t it.

“Scientists here got ‘emselves a sense of humor,” Daryl says. “Name’s ‘cause of the ship.  _ The Walrus _ , like in Treasure Island, it’s built offa description in the book. We even buried some booty near the wreck. Ain’t been plannin’ for this guy exactly to live here, but we knews first shark gettin’ into the Pirate Tank ‘s gonna be named Captain Flint.”

“Mister Daryl, are you a scientist too?” A chubby little girl asks, twirling her dark braids. 

Daryl shakes his head, fighting the urge to laugh, because while he thinks the notion he could be a scientist is hilarious, it would be bad if he laughed at a pup’s curiosity. And it really wouldn’t do for anyone to see his teeth bared. “Nah, ain’t nothin’ fancy like that. I‘m just the caretaker. A guy who likes sharks a whole lot.”

Rick Grimes smiles at him when Daryl almost accidentally glances his way. It’s interesting how very blue the man’s eyes appear in the dim light from the aquarium. The color can’t be real, it must be enhanced by the lighting. Human eyes don’t look like that. Like glare patterns on the water surface on a sunny morning, or like the sky in summer, or maybe like a shallow lagoon in tropical waters. Daryl can’t drown in the ocean depths, but he thinks he really could in those eyes. His face becomes unbearably warm at the thought and he quickly averts the man’s gaze, looking away and into the tank. 

Captain Flint swims away, disinterested in further circling this area of the aquarium once he ascertains there’s no food around, so Daryl coughs to clear his throat and leads the group to the next part of the tour.

“Now we gonna go past the divin’ tank. Y’all need to be extra careful, okay? Remember ‘em hands, to keep ‘em to yerselves?” He reminds the group and, once he’s satisfied with their response, he enters the next location, looking back at the pups trailing along behind him. It’s not especially dangerous, in fact, walking through the diving tank room. Obviously, there's no actual threat of the shark inside breaking out through the thick glass and developing the kind of superpowers it would need to survive on dry land long enough to bite anyone. The warning is actually for the benefit of the fish and any potential divers in the tank which is built a tad differently from the other aquariums in that the majority of it is underground, and because of that it carries sound in a more peculiar way. The water in there's dense and muddy, almost nothing is visible from the outside, so many people walking past there before the implementation of the  _ warning  _ part of the tour tended to try to knock on the glass in a stubborn hope to tempt whatever lives there out of its hiding place. 

Problem is, the one living in the tank right now is a mean old bastard. Daryl really doesn't want that guy spooked or, actually, anything other than  _ neutral _ when a diver might be inside because there would be blood. It would be easier to work around the problem if there was a set diving schedule, but it’s something that changes frequently over the course of the day. Daryl doesn’t think there’s anyone brave or stupid enough to dive with this one just yet, but he’s not taking chances.

The group doesn’t give him any trouble, though. The pups keep their hands neatly pressed against their bodies, careful not to touch the tank filled with murky water, careful not to even stomp too loudly as they pass by. They look inside, craning their necks, but that’s just natural curiosity, a childish hope to see the mythical monster of the deep or something like that. They walk past the tank without incident, following Daryl’s lead and only whispering excitedly every time they think the water moves suspiciously. Nothing does. The monster inside the tank lurks elsewhere, biding its time,  _ waiting _ .


	4. Chapter 4

The next few steps of the tour are slightly less exciting in the sense that they don’t involve any giant, potentially man-eating species. The group visit the dwarf lantern sharks which glow prettily in their dark and gloomy tank shared also by pale cat sharks, to the contentment of some of the little girls, including the bracer-wearing Penny. Then, the pups observe the feeding of the pygmy sharks and have some fun taking photos with the big tank of manta rays. Next, there are some more shark-less habitats with various eels, catfish, and starfish which Daryl finds rather dull and not even appetizing, but he tries to be enthusiastic about them when he explains their characteristics and answers questions. 

Throughout the majority of the tour, Daryl often catches Rick Grimes watching him with those incredibly blue eyes of his, like Daryl is the most interesting specimen in the entire Oceanarium. The man stops doing it eventually, but not because he’s been caught, he doesn’t seem to mind that Daryl knows what he’s been doing; no, it’s because one of the adult females - _ Lori_, her visitor tag says - finally approaches him with aggressive gesticulation and a possessive body language which indicates she at least considers herself Rick Grimes’ mate, even if there is no visible reciprocation on the man’s part. Daryl doesn’t want to know what their obvious conflict is really about. Fighting humans make him uneasy and besides, this is none of his business. 

Unfortunately, with his superior hearing, he can’t block out the snippets of none-too-hushed, angry conversation that reach him in spite of his effort not to eavesdrop. While Rick Grimes is calm and speaks too softly to be overheard, Daryl catches the woman hiss and snap things like "_you could at least pretend to be normal” _ or “_we’re still married, Rick!”, _ or even “_shamelessly eye-fucking him in front of our son”. _ Especially the latter gives him an urge to run away because he’s pretty sure the woman is talking about him, and that’s. Bad, because in spite of his overall sexual inexperience, Daryl’s not completely stupid and he’s pretty sure he can more or less imagine what _ eye-fucking _ means. He doesn’t know if he wants that. It’s… intriguing, and scary, and shameful all at once. Makes him want to flee.

He doesn’t flee, bound to the group by obligation, but he makes sure not to send even a single glance in Rick Grimes’ direction again - even though he mysteriously finds himself _ wanting to _the more he tells himself he shouldn’t.

Instead, he turns to the rest of the group and has them stop in the large round hall arranged sort of like a museum. There’s a display on on prehistoric sharks, including exhibits such as some of the largest well-preserved fossils of a megalodon’s teeth mounted in a steel model of the shark’s jaw. Based on the size of the teeth, there is a mural on the wall depicting what a megalodon theoretically could’ve looked like, and the damn thing is fifty feet long. Even to Daryl who loves sharks with all his heart, the damn picture is all sorts of alarming; it’s no wonder people used to spin stories about leviathans and other sea monsters, if they kept finding seven-inch teeth in their oceans and let their imaginations run wild.

Daryl tells the group about the megalodons, about how for a long time they were considered to be the Great White shark’s ancestors but now scientists are no longer sure, and then he decides it’s time for a short break during which he answers questions about the tour so far. The pups eagerly ask him about anything they can think of, for a chance to earn a shark-shaped magnet with the Institute’s logo on it. Daryl’s got two dozens of them in his pocket specifically for the purpose of encouraging the pups to learn things they’re curious about.

“Do sharks ever sleep?” Penny Blake asks curiously. She’s nice for a politician’s daughter, Daryl decides. She’s polite and easily impressed, and her braces are sort of adorable. She reminds Daryl of Sophia a little bit, but more than that, she’s a tad like a shark pup in how she seems to gnaw at anything that she can bring to her mouth: a pen, a little plastic star keychain, the edge of her origami shark and her own fingers. She always seems to want to bite something. Sort of like Daryl, though his go-to chew toys tend to be his own fingers. He empathizes with the little girl, though. The braces must be as uncomfortable in her mouth as Daryl’s rows of teeth sometimes are. Biting helps him with that, so he supposes it might be the same for her.

He nods with a friendly little smile that Sophia always says looks non-threatening. Which, Daryl hopes, is a good thing when interacting with pups. 

“Dependin’ on the species, some do, in a sense. Like, their brains ain’t provide no impulses an’ all that. Others don’t even do that, their bodies just sorta rest as they swim. Got periods of restful swimmin’ an’ active swimmin’.”

“Do they ever like, stop swimming?” A boy asks. He doesn’t look at Daryl, too busy contemplating a particularly ugly starfish in one of the small side tanks.

Carl Grimes shakes his head, rising his hand to indicate he wants to speak. “I read about that! They need to swim to breathe!” He announces proudly, and then looks at Daryl like he’s expecting praise.

Daryl smiles at the boy, too, and offers him a magnet. “Yer kinda right, but not full on. Again, ‘s dependin’ on species. Most sharks is like you said, needs to be in motion for breathin’, but there’s some that can pump air through their gills. Those don’t need to be swimmin’ all the time. Bullhead sharks or cat sharks are good examples. They can sorta lay down in the sand at the bottom offa sea an’ sleep, though’s not like we sleep. ‘s just their brains bein’ less active.”

Penny asks again, “How much do sharks eat? Because Daddy said sharks are always hungry, and they always eat, but if that’s true, wouldn’t they be round?”

Daryl actually has trouble suppressing a grin of amusement at the question. He explains about opportunistic feeding and how it works with sharks, and adds, “For a Great White shark, they can eats ‘bout three to five percent their body weight a day. Means sixty, seventy pounds easy. So lil’ Miss Penny here, yer like one day’s worth ‘a food,” he teases and the girl giggles.

“I’m not for eating!” She protests coyly. “I’m a predator!” Her r’s are rounded and sound a bit funny due to the braces, but nobody seems to care. The other girls in the group laugh with her, not at her, and it’s real nice to watch how the pups seem to genuinely like each other.

“Yer totally a predator,” Daryl agrees with the little girl. “Humans generally are. ‘s called an _ apex predator_, which means top of the food chain. Sharks are that in the seas, an’ there’s I guess, some lions or somethin’ in the jungles, but top of it all, without anythin’ bigger or smarter eatin’ ‘em, there’s humans who can really eat everythin’.”

The nod along to the explanation, committing the information to their memories. Carl even writes something down in a notebook he carries around. Daryl likes telling stuff to pups like this. Makes him believe he’s not flapping his mouth uselessly. At least they’re going to learn stuff here, commit some of it to memory. Who knows, maybe they’re the next generation of shark scientists in the making. There’s always room for more people who care, Daryl thinks.

The light-haired teenager lifts her hand to ask a question, too. Daryl looks at her expectantly.

“What about killer whales? I know Alexandria Institute is a good facility and doesn’t keep any, but can you tell us something interesting about them?”

Daryl tries hard to suppress the scowl at the mention of orcas. Damn, but he hates those nasty fuckers. Humans love them, pretend like they’re cute and cuddly like some sort of sea pandas and make family movies about them, but the truth is, killer whales are the most cunning, cruel sons of bitches in the oceans wide. Damn big bastards go around hunting down Great Whites for their livers, like the white sharks are floating buffets and not the ocean’s mightiest beasts. Ezekiel had everyone, including Daryl, sit through a documentary about it once, and Daryl still has nightmares about the _ cute _ black-and-white toothy bastards that know precisely where to bite to only get the liver and nothing else. Being eaten is one thing, but when something eats your liver and leaves you in the water to die horribly over the course of hours or, even worse, days? It’s fucking scary is what it is. 

He must be less successful hiding his feelings than he’d hoped because the girl’s curious expression quickly turns apologetic, like she realizes she’s offended him somehow. Her name tag reads _ Beth _ with a little flower drawn next to the letter _ h_. She’s just a pup, it’s becoming more and more clear, and now she thinks she did something wrong. 

Groaning inwardly at himself, hating to be the reason a pup doubts herself, Daryl offers her a magnet and says in his friendliest tone:

“I could probly tell ya stuff, but why’d you wanna know things ‘bout them creepy bastards? Got us something much better to see. If everyone’s ready?” He looks to the back of the group where the woman named Lori is no longer hissy-shouting at Rick Grimes. When she notices Daryl looking, she schools her face into a forced smile and nods to him, and Daryl nods back, then leads the group towards what he thinks is the best part of the Alexandria Institute’s entire complex.

The final step of the tour, the grand finale, the main attraction of every recent trip into the Oceanarium and, coincidentally, Daryl’s favorite part of the whole event, is the Biter Tank. Daryl lets everyone inside the room built as a tunnel inside the absolutely humongous aquarium, a wide transparent tube surrounded by water from all sides. It’s supposed to make the visitors feel like they’re in the deep among the marine life, but of course it’s nothing alike, not that the humans will ever know unless they try cage diving somewhere up at Cape Cod, and maybe not even then. Still, Daryl likes this place, the way it feels with what looks a little like the ocean all around him.

He likes it even more on the other side of the thick glass, swimming with his friends and pretending he’s not a land-dwelling mammalian abomination, but now’s not the time for that.

“The Great White’s the kinda shark everyone’s always thinkin’ about when sharks are even mentioned. We all seen _ Jaws_, right? Even though mama ‘n papa said it ain't suitable for kids,” he winks at the group and he notes that most of the pups try to hide their smug grins. Carl doesn’t, he grins outright, much to the chagrin of his mother. Rick Grimes, though, seems amused, and Daryl’s still _ not _looking at him, so he doesn’t see the man playfully ruffling Carl’s hair.

“They got ‘emselves some bad reputation, Great Whites. It‘s understandable: they’s one of the two biggest shark species alive today, second only to whale sharks. Females can grow to be ‘s much as twenty, twenty-one feet long and the largest known in history weighed about five thousand pounds. So they’s really, really big, like over three times bigger ‘n me, and with lotsa interaction with humans because of their habitats sorta overlappin’ ours. Fun fact: this reputation‘s mostly undeserved,” Daryl continues.

“You mean to say they don’t really attack humans? The attacks are well documented, though,” Rick Grimes interrupts, though the tone of his voice doesn’t sound like an interruption, more like an invitation to a substantial discussion.

Daryl rolls his eyes. He’s not the right guy to discuss anything scientific, but this topic? Sure, why not. He's an expert after all.

“‘course they attack humans,” he admits easily. “Just like, dunno, grizzly bears, and pumas and whatnot in the woods. It’s wild animals and humans encroach on their territories. Great Whites don’t really eat humans if there’s better alternatives, though. ‘s too lean sorta meat, too hard to hunt. Most of them so called _ attacks _ is just accidents, test bites. Nothin’ deliberate about it.”

“What about if one shark develops a taste for human meat?” Rick Grimes asks, frowning. He looks like he’s disappointed, like he was hungry for a bloody story just like the pups are. Or like he’s watched _ Jaws _ too many times.

Daryl shakes his head. “Ain’t never happened. Yer probly referrin’ to those _ rogue shark _ stories, yea? None of ‘em‘s true. Sure, it ain’t me sayin’ no Great White’s ever eaten humans before, none of that, I ain’t a damn shark apologist or whatever. Sharks eat meat, man, and they’re not some picky gourmet eaters or nothin’. Don’t mean they’s gonna go specifically target humans when there’s just better options all ‘round. Let’s be real, humans ain’t even all that tasty,” he jokes and winks for the benefit of the pups watching the whole exchange.

“Ain’t they,” Rick Grimes says, smirking, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that really can’t be missed. There’s something about his scent… it’s not the exhibition rooms that smell so enticing, Daryl realizes, it’s Rick Grimes. And now that he can identify the source, Daryl can tell what exactly it is he’s picking up on. He can smell a flicker of interest, similar to the arousal he smells on Aaron or Eric when they’re together, or on other humans whenever they see attractive people in various states of undress. But it’s also different. Deeper, somehow. On all those people, the scent is sharp and grates on Daryl’s nerves, deters him, makes him turn away. On Rick Grimes, it’s alluring. It feels blue, like the man’s eyes. Like the shallows of the ocean, or the clear sky on an early summer morning. And like an electric spark on the air in the eve of a thunderstorm, it feels inevitable.

Daryl feels warmth spreading in waves across his cheeks and down his neck and chest. He's blushing. Damn his stupid mammalian blood flow. What even is the point of this particular body reaction? Showing signs of embarrassment only serves to point out a weakness to a potential predator. Why would a species evolve to retain such a nonsensical mechanism? Humans and their dumb, warm-blooded bodies, they wouldn’t survive an hour down in the deep like that. What a pointless thing to do, this blushing business. Daryl decides he’s going to have to learn not to do it anymore.

He shakes his head and attempts to push away all thoughts of the appealing scent of Rick Grimes’ interest. He concentrates once again on the group instead. The pups are making a visible effort not to run around the tube to see the various colorful fish swimming around because they seem to realize Daryl has more things to tell them. But all of the talking can wait, he decides. He thinks maybe it’s time to reward the pups for being so good so far. 

“Don’t panic, everyone, but we’re gonna swim with ‘em sharks,” he warns. He walks up to the glass and taps it in a rapid sequence based loosely on the Morse code. He masks the fact he’s doing it by pressing the panel below where he taps, which sends a feeding signal to the guys upstairs; but it’s the minuscule vibration of the water, not the food being released into the deep that brings Henry and Lydia soaring through the water from opposing sides of the tube, both Great Whites so majestic and magnificent as they swim that Daryl’s eyes become unbearably wet. The sight of the two sharks, nature’s perfect apex predators who come willingly to his side because he taught them to respond to this particular call; the fact that they know he’s here on the other side of the glass, and they’re willing to present themselves before the audience for Daryl’s benefit: it’s enough to make even the toughest man tear up.

Daryl wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands and quickly turns to the group. “The one on yer right’s Lydia,” he introduces, motioning towards the female with his head. “Was brought to us six weeks ago after a fight with another Great White, an alpha female, left her beached an’ injured. Here, she’s established herself as the alpha, the leader. For Great Whites, ‘s almost always the biggest female that’s leader. Ain’t gettin’ more feminist than ‘em sharks,” he jokes, more for the benefit of the adults than the pups who now seem much more interested in the sharks hunting for food than whatever Daryl has to say. He doesn’t even mind. He’s more interested in watching the sharks, too.

The other adult female, name-tagged _ Maggie_, laughs at the joke and says something into the ear of the male she’s been talking to. Her companion - _ Glenn _ \- groans audibly, but he seems amused as well. Beth giggles. Lori doesn’t react at all; it’s possible she didn’t even catch Daryl’s remark because she seems busy typing something furiously on her phone. Daryl pointedly doesn’t look at Rick Grimes to check if the man liked the joke.

“The handsome dude on yer left’s Henry,” he says, pointing his outstretched hand at the smaller shark. “He got himself captured some two months ago ‘cause he almost choked on a sea turtle. Professor King, our own world-class Great White specialist, was on his boat trackin’ this guy ‘cause he was tagged three years ago and we go followin’ tagged sharks to check up on ‘em from time to time. The Prof done rescued the guy right on the spot. Gots him here to get healthy and all. Now, normally when sharks try to bite more than theys can swallow, tends to be their last supper. Henry here was very lucky we were close enough to help.”

That’s not the whole story, of course. Daryl can’t very much reveal his own involvement in the rescue mission, how he’d jumped into the water and leaped towards the thrashing shark with no hesitation to Ezekiel’s horror, how he had to subdue the shark over twice his size so that the team could use a special crane to remove the tortoise from Henry’s jaws. All the while, the shark kept fighting to keep his prey because for all their awesomeness, Great Whites really aren’t very bright, especially not when it comes to food. Daryl almost got torn in half that day. He has the scars to show for it, dark jagged lines around his midsection, standing out in raised ridges of skin among other scars from long ago. There’s no way he would’ve survived if he was more human. Strangely, in the water, it didn’t hurt at all, like his entire nervous system turned more fish-like under the ocean’s surface. He screamed himself raw and almost snapped his spine thrashing wildly from the pain as soon as they pulled him out, so he was kept underwater for the duration of the healing process. It only took three weeks due to his increased regeneration rate, but there were periods, especially at the beginning, when even he didn’t know if he’d make it. Apparently, his mostly human physiognomy had trouble functioning without the spleen, both kidneys and a big tear in the bowels. Good thing it all grew back and Daryl returned to being functional soon afterwards.

Henry was apologetic about it, later, at least as much as a shark with no capacity for emotional responses could really ever be. Daryl never held a grudge anyway. He got in the way of a Great White’s meal. He knew the risk as he took it, and as such, he was the only one to blame for the result.

He remembers the first time he actually went into the tank to swim with Henry. He wasn’t allowed to. Aaron explicitly forbade it after Daryl expressed the interest to do it as soon as his internal organs were fine and the skin around his midsection started growing back. That was when Daryl really understood how humans tend to become protective over people they dub as friends; somehow, he used to attribute that characteristic to Carol exclusively and thought she was a special case, but as it turned out, while Carol’s got a penchant for treating him like a pup, it’s not a trait exclusive to her. Even still, he decided to go in. He had to: Henry wasn’t eating. He wasn’t doing all that swell in captivity in those initial days.

Daryl sneaked into the aquarium at night. He entered from the cleaning pool, dismantled a part of the safety netting and just went right in. He brought a big chunk of pork with him, dragged the meat around and produced as many splashing noises on the surface as he possibly could before he dived into the deep. Henry wasn’t tempted, but Daryl found him eventually. The shark was weak and almost seemed unhappy, which was very telling for a creature with close to no capacity for advanced feelings. Daryl spent the better part of the night convincing Henry to eat, but didn’t succeed. He also didn’t get bitten, though, so when Jesus found him in the morning, naked and tired after following the shark around for the whole night, Daryl didn’t get into too much trouble. Well, he did have to explain himself to Jesus, though, which wasn’t easy because people don’t tend to react well to what they perceive as monsters living among them. But it worked out. He’s been Jesus’ friend ever since, got his phone number, so he still counts that one as a success.

Aaron begrudgingly let Daryl return to Henry’s tank two nights later when the Great White still refused to feed. It didn’t work then, either, and the situation was starting to look like yet another failed attempt to keep a white shark alive in captivity, so Aaron was really grasping at straws. But Daryl refused to give up. He came back on the next night, too. And then on the night after that. And again, until, on his fifth night with Henry, Daryl finally convinced the stubborn shark to eat the offering of fat meat.

They’ve become good companions since then. Daryl’s got a necklace with some of Henry’s teeth that he pulled out of his wounds when he was recuperating, and he wears it all the time. Eric loves it, says it’s pretty cool. The others call it morbid, though Jesus tried to steal the necklace and wear it to a rock concert once. He made a strange face when Daryl offered to ask Henry for a couple teeth he could make into his own necklace. For some reason, he declined the offer and made sure not to be found too close to the Biter Tank for days. 

Daryl’s trip down the memory lane is suddenly interrupted when Rick Grimes stands entirely too close to him, taking advantage of the fact the pups are thoroughly distracted by the spectacle of two adult Great Whites feeding and showing off their hunting skills. The man’s so close, in fact, that Daryl can feel the heat coming off of his body, warming his own, and he tries not to let it get to him but it’s difficult. From this distance, or the lack thereof, it’s impossible to ignore the subtle and yet overpowering scent of Rick Grimes filling Daryl’s nostrils.

“Quite a sight,” the man says, but his incredibly blue eyes are locked on Daryl, not the inhabitants of the aquarium. He smells so good, so enticing that Daryl wants to lean into Rick Grimes’ space and press his nose into the crook of the man’s neck where the fragrance is undoubtedly stronger. He doesn’t do it, but he wants to. 

It’s a bewildering feeling, something he’s never experienced before, and Daryl’s confused. He thought himself immune to physical attraction after almost thirty years of living without it. Why the fuck is this happening to him now all of a sudden? He never expected to feel like this. Certainly not around a randomly encountered male of a completely different species than his own; but the release of hormones into his bloodstream doesn’t lie, the reaction his body shows to this man’s proximity doesn’t lie. Daryl’s mind might still be fighting this draw, but he knows, reasonably, that it’s a vain effort. It seems like he was right when he wondered about it earlier: he’s like Eric and Aaron. He’s _ gay_. Great. Just what he needed: yet another nonsensical piece in the puzzle of Daryl Dixon.

Rick Grimes clears his throat to draw Daryl’s attention, like he thinks he doesn’t already have every ounce of it just by standing so close.

“So, I hope I’m not reading this whole thing very wrong. I’m no good at such things, I don’t think I’ve dated anyone since high school, really, but… Well. I’ve been looking at you. And I kinda noticed, you’ve been looking back,” he says softly and it’s obvious from his inflection that he hopes for an answer, an acknowledgement, maybe a confirmation of what he’s inferring.

Daryl just hums noncommittally in reply, unwilling to encourage the man because he knows he shouldn’t, but his seemingly indifferent reaction doesn’t seem to deter him at all. Just like before, when Daryl was rude to him on purpose, Rick Grimes stands his ground and continues to look at Daryl like Daryl is the only thing in this room worth his attention. Apparently the man is nothing if not determined.

“Do you wanna go out with me tonight?” He asks, his mouth stretching into a hopeful smile which looks both adorable and irresistible. 

Daryl has an overwhelming desire to bite him or, even better, to be bitten by him; he licks his lips and looks away, shaking his head. “Yer married and I ain’t interested,” he mutters. For the first time in his life, the claim is a lie. He’s pretty sure it’s obvious, too.

Rick Grimes doesn’t address the lie, though, he just chuckles. “I’m almost divorced, there’s just some papers left in need of signing,” he says cheerfully. Indeed, he’s not wearing a ring that most married humans do, but that doesn’t have to mean a thing. 

“And anyway, we could just grab a beer, you and I. As two dudes fascinated by sharks. It doesn’t have to be anything more. Not unless you want it to be.”

And Daryl does something stupid, rash and completely reckless:

He says _ yes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotta say, I've been writing rickyl fics in every spare moment I have and I love it, but - do you? I mean, if I suddenly post seven stories in a row, will you guys hate me?  
(I probably won't because I wouldn't be able to handle that amount of stress, but. You know. Theoretically.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the response to my inquiry at the end of the last chapter~ It was purely theoretical, I don't think I'll be able to drop seven stories in a row here, but. Please expect some rickyl spam on here soon. 
> 
> I'm living with this problem where anything I start writing demands to be a multi-chaptered story instead of a oneshot. Why can't I ever be concise?

The tour didn’t really have last long after the Biter Tank, though to be honest, Daryl doesn’t really remember what happened between Rick Grimes asking him out and the group leaving the premises to head to their hotel. He’s quite sure he hugged some pups goodbye, and he definitely gave Penny Blake one of Henry’s teeth from his necklace much to the envy of pretty much everyone else. He also thinks he might have forgotten to enthusiastically advertise the summer cage diving tours the Institute has been planning for the past few years, but really, he can’t be blamed for that. He’s having a crisis.

It’s now some thirty-seven minutes past six o’clock, the group’s been gone for almost an hour, and Daryl is reconsidering his life choices. All of them. Carol is looking at him like he’s literally lost his mind and Daryl thinks she might be onto something there. Aaron and Jesus are both busy rummaging through Daryl’s small wardrobe like it’s the chance of their lifetimes, arguing loudly themselves if it’s actually acceptable to wear a simple black t-shirt to a first date or not. Eric, who was dragged in here by his boyfriend’s insistence, is possibly the only non-judgmental face in the crowd currently cooped up in Daryl’s tiny bedroom. Eric’s a good guy. Daryl likes him best. 

Until he speaks, that is, because the words that fall out of his mouth are: “So, Daryl. Just a question, and before you get angry: I’m not being nosy, I’m just trying to help. You _ do _ know how sex works between two human males, right?” 

And the truth of the matter is, Daryl doesn’t know. Granted, he doesn’t know a lot about the act of having sex at all, regardless of the species and genders involved, because he was just never interested enough in the topic to bother learning about it. He sort of has an idea of how it works with sharks. He has this very vague concept that there’s a tab A to be inserted into slot B, and he knows there’s a lot of biting involved. Like, so much biting. First to indicate interest, then so that one partner can mount the other and do all that inserting of things into, well, other things. There are lots of scars left afterwards, but it’s not a problem to Daryl, he’s pretty sure it’s natural to live with scars. He’s got plenty already and he doesn’t mind having more if it’s necessary. They show off how tough he is to the potential mate.

“Daryl, no,” Eric says, appalled, and proceeds to elaborate: “I mean, well, you’re not wrong about the insertion, yeah, though that’s only the penetrative aspect of sex and doesn’t really have to be involved unless you care about procreation which won’t happen with two males anyway, so we better not discuss it, please. And biting only really works with sharks. I mean, some people are into biting, but more like, umm, gentle biting? Our nervous systems are more elaborate than fish, so uh, we’d be hurt pretty badly if we did it like you mean. There’s absolutely no reason for human partners to bite each other so hard as to leave scars, anyhow. Sharks only do it because they don’t have any other way to hold on during the intercourse. People have, well, hands, and they’re much less slippery than fish, even than fish with skin teeth. And it’s also relatively easier to do it in a bed than in the ocean.”

“Are we giving _ the Sex Talk _ to a dude that’s almost thirty years old? Really?” Jesus asks incredulously, straightening the somewhat crumpled dark grey t-shirt with torn off sleeves he retrieved from Daryl’s pile of clothes. He looks incredibly happy at the turn in the conversation. He’s wearing a grin that’s positively lecherous. His behavior is all very interesting because at the beginning, he used to be pretty closed off and introverted, even more so than Daryl with his complete social ineptitude. Wouldn’t even talk to most people, and those he did talk to, he treated like they were far superior. He got over it, after some time, after he made friends with Aaron. Apparently, learning he’s not the only gay man working for the Institute did wonders for his self confidence.

Well, it’s good, Daryl reckons. He likes Jesus and his perverted sense of humor. He doesn’t even mind the man objectifying him from time to time in a rather sexual manner. It’s all in good fun and he’s pretty confident Jesus would stop as soon as Daryl said it bothered him. 

“_You _ aren’t giving anyone a sex talk,” Carol announces, digging a finger into Jesus’ chest, her tone very firm, “our resident expert on shark mating habits _ is_,” she nods towards Eric who blushes, eyes widening in what seems to be a downright panic.

“I’m just an ichthyologist, I’m not sure I’m the right person to-” he protests feebly, like he wasn’t the one who broached the subject in the first place. 

But Carol isn’t convinced, and she’s a formidable woman when she makes up her mind about something. They all know already: there’s no escape for Eric. 

“You’re a marine biologist specializing in shark reproduction who also happens to be gay. I think you’re the only person here who can cover everything Daryl might need to know.”

“Ain’t need no sex talk,” Daryl grumbles half-heartedly, more in an attempt to save Eric the embarrassment than because he really thinks he doesn’t need it. He does. Badly. If he claimed otherwise, he’d just be lying to himself. And that? Is a human vice. One he tries to rid himself of.

Still, for Eric’s sake, he says: “Just goin’ for a beer. Ain’t plannin’ on any sex with nobody.”

“Of course you’re planning to have sex with that guy, Pookie,” Carol assures him, rolling her eyes with an expression like she’s dealing with a particularly stubborn pup. “You’ve been going on about that man’s eyes for thirty minutes straight. You called us all here in a fit of gay panic - your words, not mine, you called it _ gay panic _ all by yourself, so don’t you frown at me, mister. And now you’re letting _ those two _ choose an outfit for you when you know very well they’re thirsty for any glimpse of your broad and manly physique,” she gives an amused look to Aaron and Paul. The former makes an embarrassed sound and shoots an apologetic glance at his boyfriend. The latter just grins unabashedly.

Carol continues: “And you’re almost drooling at the idea of biting him. Or him biting you. That’s too much information, by the way, sweetie. We don’t need to know your dirty, kinky fantasies,” she adds with the air of someone who very much _ wants _to know all about it.

“See, to him, that’s not even a fantasy, and it’s definitely not what he’d consider kinky if he knew what the word meant. For all he knows, biting is probably the basics, like, the bare essentials of mating behaviors,” Eric says, nodding to himself thoughtfully. “We’re all agreed that out of all modern day sharks, Daryl’s genetic affinity is closest to the _ Carcharodon carcharias_, as evidenced by the DNA tests we did last year and the tooth comparison, right? Those were fascinating, by the way, I wish I could devote more time to researching the common genes… Maybe find some common ancestors? I mean, surely there must’ve been something in between, evolution doesn’t simply drop a bomb like that in the middle of the ocean- Okay, okay, back to the topic at hand,” he says when he notices Carol’s impatient look. “Um. Well, because of his genetic affinity, I think it’s completely normal for Daryl’s instinctual reaction to sexual attraction to be the urge to bite or be bitten. That’s how Great Whites express their readiness to mate when the season is correct and the females release the mating hormones. An interested male bites a female, then if she bites back, they begin the ritualistic courtship which lasts approximately-”

“Okay, but Daryl doesn’t have a mating season with hormones or anything like that,” Jesus notes. “Believe me, I’ve been trying to hook up with him, I would’ve noticed a mating season. No way I’d let that shit go. I would’ve been down for biting and what-not, too, just so you know.”

“Shut up,” Daryl mutters, feeling himself go warm with embarrassment again. It’s happening a lot today. That’s because they’re sort of treating him like he’s the female in this potential mating scenario. Males don’t release mating hormones. Females do, to attract males and instigate the mating process. Daryl’s positive there’s no homosexuality between sharks. There’s also no heterosexuality, not in how humans see it. It’s just a biological imperative, a drive to reproduce. There’s no concept of sexuality involved in it at all. He doesn’t mention it, though, because it’s not like his friends are new to the subject. They’re all scientists. They know better than he ever could. 

Still, he’s uncomfortable, so he demands: “Stop talkin’ ‘bout me like I’m not here.”

“It’s easier, though,” Eric protests weakly. “I can pretend I’m giving a lecture and it’s less awkward than a literal gay sex talk. Also, I’m trying to find a way to translate the shark ways into, you know, the gay ways. It’s _ not _ easy.”

“You’re doing great, love,” Aaron assures him loyally, patting him on the back. Eric gives him a bright, grateful smile. Daryl thinks they’re adorable. Like baby seals.

Huh. His stomach growls. He might be getting hungry again.

Jesus rolls his eyes and sets aside a pair of black ripped jeans from the clothing pile. “Guys, it’s easy. Really. All evidence we’ve gathered suggests the Great Whites aren’t all that unique in how they fuck in comparison to other ovoviviparous shark species. Yeah, so we haven’t seen Great Whites going at it yet, but come on, we’ve all had a close look on their reproductive organs. That’s enough to conclude how it goes, isn’t it? Male mounts female, claspers go into the oviduct through the cloaca, insemination occurs, blah blah, eleven months later a litter of pups emerges. Sexy, I suppose, as far as big fish go. And it’s not that different for humans, only there’s the penis instead of the weird fin thingy, and it doesn’t exactly go into the oviducts directly. Still, you stick it where it fits. With two guys, that’d be the-”

“You know what, I think it’s best to just let Daryl watch some porn,” Eric interrupts hastily, and his face is very red. “Then he can compare if his physiology matches the human body-”

“Y’all know your human bodies, can just check if mine‘s the same,” Daryl supplies helpfully and begins to strip. 

Aaron and Carol both have very similar reactions to the offer: they start shouting for Daryl to stop this sort of behavior immediately, though while Aaron sounds slightly hysterical, Carol sounds mostly like a very stern mother. Eric averts his gaze but is speechless, and he keeps peeking when he thinks Daryl can’t see him. Jesus, on the other hand, looks right at Daryl very pointedly and, smirking, urges him on:

“By all means, I’m totally on board with your _ hands-on _approach.”

The others stare at him and Jesus shrugs. “Oh come on guys! Don’t you tell me you’d mind seeing closely what our shark friend packs down there. We’re all curious about it. Well maybe not Carol, alright, don’t kill me, I get it, you’ve seen enough,” he lifts his hands defensively. “But seriously. Me? I’m having fun here. Like. I’m not sure if I’m more aroused or amused, but it’s very definitely an A-feeling,” he adds with a cheeky grin.

Daryl, shirtless, pauses with his fingers on the button of his jeans. “... ‘s this inappropriate or some shit?” He asks, frowning. He feels he might be missing something. They’ve been talking about sex which is apparently a complicated subject, so isn’t a demonstration easier?

Aaron nods fervently. His face is red and he looks away to the wall, then to Eric, then to the ceiling - anywhere that’s not Daryl’s body on display. He smells _ interested _ , and he’s not the only one who does; all three males in the room positively _ reek _ of mild or not-so-mild interest, though Aaron is the only one who seems to feel guilty about it. It seems fitting that he’s the one finally saying something, too, since he’s the one who suffers most from Daryl’s shamelessness, every morning outside of the Biter Tank as Daryl changes from the bodysuit into his regular clothes.

He says, “Yes, Daryl, this is inappropriate. People don’t strip in front of everyone just like that. God, where’d you learn your manners?”

“Didn’t,” Daryl mutters and shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t understand all the commotion. This obviously isn’t the first time he’s been at least half-naked in front of multiple people. Carol’s seen him completely naked more times than he can remember, though most of the times she didn’t really volunteer for it and she has been trying to teach him the meaning of modesty; and everyone present here with the notable and sad exception of Jesus had the opportunity to see the majority of Daryl covered in blood, with guts spilling out and some very impressive teeth sticking out of him that time when Henry was rescued. Jesus, on the other hand, was the one who found him swimming naked in Henry’s tank that first time, so he shouldn’t be making a fuss at all. And, well. To Daryl, some skin is no big deal. Humans really have this weird preoccupation with their bodies and with shit like obscuring them with colorful fabrics that make them stand out in their environments. The fabrics admittedly tend to feel nice on the skin, but Daryl thinks they’re pointless. Though he supposes multiple aspects of humanoid anatomy are generally pointless altogether, and the clothes help to keep the squishy hanging bits in line. 

His careless attitude towards nudity might be somewhat connected to the fact he doesn’t feel cold and humidity doesn’t bother him besides making his skin display the same skin-teeth roughness it does when he’s in the water. He remembers the first time Carol touched his wrist when it was raining. She claimed it was like sandpaper. It left her with scratch marks and a habit to check if Daryl’s skin is dry before touching him. 

“I think we should be teaching him how to act on a human date instead, shouldn’t we? I mean, Daryl really shouldn’t put out on the first date anyway,” Aaron decides, shaking his head as he pats Daryl on the arm in a gesture that feels protective. Daryl huffs. He doesn’t need to be protected. His teeth might be feeble in comparison to a Great White’s, but it’s more than enough to keep him safe from any human threat.

“Yeah, but he will put out anyway,” Jesus grumbles, “just look at him, he’s head over heels. What we think he should and shouldn’t do is meaningless at this point.”

“Damn straight,” Daryl informs them. Then, realizing he just as good as told them he was planning to have sex with Rick Grimes tonight - he doesn’t! Though if things happen, if Rick Grimes bites him, he’s certainly not going to refuse - realizing that, he amends, “but I‘s been tellin’ y’all, it‘s just a beer. Not even plannin’ to stay long. Gonna go see if I can get Joe more civilized later tonight.”

“That one’s giving me the creeps,” Carol mutters, shaking her head. She looks worried. “Haven’t seen a bull that mean in years, maybe not since I was in Yucatan with the SRI, and that one was crazy because he was deformed. I wouldn’t set one foot in a tank with that Joe character, not even if you paid me.”

“Someone’s gotta,” Daryl replies with a shrug. He appreciates Carol’s concern, but he doesn’t think it’s particularly warranted. To be honest, he’s kind of looking forward to swimming with Joe in the diving tank. The old bull shark may be a cunning bastard, but that doesn’t make him any less of a magnificent creature. Daryl could learn a lot from him. Maybe he could also teach him to communicate, just like he taught Lydia and Henry. It would definitely help the Institute’s researchers if Joe became less savage and vicious.

Actually, the prospect of swimming with a potentially feral bull shark who probably ate a human or a few in his lifetime is much less terrifying than the beer-not-date with Rick Grimes he stupidly agreed to. He can’t take it back now, though; Daryl doesn’t even have the blue-eyed man’s phone number to cancel on him. If he did, he’d do it. He’d cancel in a heartbeat, and he might regret it later, but he knows it would be better for him in the long run than going. What even possessed him to say yes to Rick Grimes’ invitation? Okay, so the man smelled fantastic and looked at Daryl like he really, really wanted to bite him, and his smile was so pretty, and his voice sounded nice. And his smell. Daryl can’t get over his smell. But then again, that’s no reason to go out with a stranger who doesn’t know his secret. An outsider who can’t find out. Who can’t be trusted. But Daryl wants to bite him, just a little, gently, so his delicate human flesh doesn’t become irreparably damaged. He wants to have Rick Grimes look at him like Daryl is something to be cherished. He wants to have sex for the first time, with Rick Grimes and nobody else. How can he accomplish that if he can’t even really smile at the man? And his friends who are supposed to be looking out for him are encouraging him to go instead of trying to stop him. Like it’s not a risk. Like there’s no chance that in case Rick Grimes found out, Daryl would end up taken by the same people who took Merle away five years ago, to be prodded and poked and gawked at like some sort of anomaly in a top-security military facility. He knows they don’t mean to be dismissive of the risk; they all just seem to have much more faith in Daryl’s ability to seamlessly blend in with humans than he deserves.

_ Fuck_, he realizes, aware that he’s still willing to go and see Rick Grimes despite the looming threat of discovery, _ I’m screwed_. 

“I can’t do this,” he announces to his audience, and even he can hear the beginnings of panic in his own voice. Can he take somebody with him? It’s just a beer with a relative stranger. Does that mean he can take a friend? Would Aaron go with him? Would Rick Grimes be disappointed if Daryl didn't come alone?

Jesus rolls his eyes and throws a black tank top with the Institute’s logo at him. “Wear this with the ripped jeans, drama queen,” he suggests, ignoring Daryl’s very important dilemma. “It’s gonna show off those delicious shoulders of yours. It’ll drive your pretty man crazy for you, and give us all some wank material, too.”

Aaron punches Jesus on the arm, blushing, while Eric laughs and Carol snorts inelegantly, trying to hide her grin behind a hand. Daryl just frowns and puts on the tank top. He doesn’t know what _ wank material _ even is, though he can sort of guess from the reactions. Somehow, though, Jesus being Jesus calms him down. He can do it. He can go have a beer with Rick Grimes, smell him again in a neutral place where his eyes won’t be _ that _ blue, and he’ll get over this strange attraction. Because he doesn’t think Rick Grimes will be as alluring outside of the Institute's walls. He’s just a man, like everyone else. There’s no reason for Daryl to want to bite and be bitten by him. He’s never wanted it before.

He’s probably just confused.

He rolls his eyes and reaches for the jeans, then gets an idea of payback which might at least take his mind off of the scary shit it’s been pondering. He smirks, looks Jesus straight in the eye, and takes off the pants he was wearing before slowly pulling on the new pair.

“... holy shit,” Jesus says and actually flushes bright red, eyes wide and lips parted. 

“Pookie, what did I tell you about underwear?” Carol admonishes in an ever-suffering tone of voice, but her face shows she’s still amused, if not more so than before. 

“That I should be wearin’ it?” Daryl remembers. He shrugs, pretending he’s not amused at all. “Ain’t comfy. Dunno why I should bother.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Jesus says to nobody in particular, grinning stupidly. His reaction is way overblown. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Daryl naked before, though the circumstances were different that time. Aaron, who probably realizes this, slaps the undergrad on the arm, and Eric, smiling somewhat weakly, supplies:

“Well, now we had a _ good hard _ look and we know Daryl’s probably anatomically compatible with humans.” And then he licks his lips and, in a much lower voice, adds, “Though I wouldn’t mind giving _it_ a bit of a closer glance...”

“Eric!”

“Oh, sorry, love. It’s purely scientific interest, I swear! See, from this glimpse, I think the shape might be a bit different, there’s this ridge I noticed, and I do wonder about the texture. Maybe some empirical research-”

Outraged enough to overcome his embarrassment, Aaron interrupts: “Eric Raleigh, you will absolutely _ not _ conduct empirical research of any kind on Daryl’s penis, is that clear?”

“I didn’t mean to conduct it without you, baby,” Eric reassures. “Besides, it seems like quite a handful. Of research. To conduct, you know.”

Jesus looks from one to the other, then at Daryl, and licks his lips. “Just saying, if it happens, you guys are not getting rid of me either. This all sounds like important research. Very big, very breakthrough-y. Two guys might not be enough to handle it. You could use an additional hand...”

“You know what, Pookie, you’d better go get that beer with your man,” Carol says, patting Daryl on the back. “Before these three get themselves a lawsuit for sexual harassment. Or worse, before they jump you.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, but he nods, calmer now, less terrified by the prospect of the unknown. He grabs his leather jacket, brushes his fingers through dark strands of his hair, decides he probably looks presentable enough for a simple beer at a bar, and he heads for the door. Before he walks out, he casts a measuring glance at his three male friends, shakes his head, then smirks back at Carol and says in a dismissive tone of voice:

“Bet’cha I could take all three of ‘em easy.”

And he leaves Carol laughing heartily and the men bewildered and spluttering. They shouldn’t have assumed he didn’t understand innuendo at all. He knows _ some _ things. He may not be experienced in any sexual matters, may not know much about how sex works between humans, even less when it comes to gay humans… but his brother was Merle fucking Dixon, for fuck’s sake. He knows how to make lousy and lewd _that’s what she said _jokes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took a little longer than expected, I got sick over the weekend v.v But here's finally the date chapter :D

Unfortunately, Daryl’s newfound zen and self-confidence vanish completely about five minutes after he leaves his cramped little apartment in the Institute's building complex, just as he passes the front gate to be exact. When he leaves the Institute’s walls, it’s almost always only to go as far as to the beach. He rarely ever goes to the city, and especially not by himself. It’s daunting, really. He can navigate in the deep sea in what humans would dub as complete darkness, but he gets lost on land if there are no stars to go by. He doesn’t like tall buildings and large concrete-filled spaces. And he’s not a social creature, not like humans are. He doesn’t know what to do with himself in places with a lot of people. Moreover, as he soon finds out, he can’t see the ocean from the bar he’s meeting Rick at, which scares him a little because it feels like he’s got nowhere to run. If only he could see, or smell, or even just hear the ocean… but he can’t. 

He has half the mind to go back. He makes himself go inside.

The place isn’t as crowded as he expected thanks to it being a weekday, but Daryl still feels like people are staring at him when he walks in. It’s making him even more nervous. _ When they look, it means exposure, exposure means you’re dead in the water. A predator can’t be seen before he strikes_, his daddy taught him. Taught him with words and with deeds, always, always able to sneak up on him, to strike when Daryl least expected to be hit. For a human, Will Dixon was a tough son of a bitch. Left more scars than any shark Daryl met afterwards, even more than Henry who almost killed him. Some of those scars can’t be seen.

Daryl shakes his head. No use thinking about that, now. He scans the semi-darkness of the bar, wondering briefly why humans enjoy such dark interiors if they can barely see anything inside them. To Daryl, the faint lighting is enough to see clearly and even to differentiate colors. It’s no different from daylight. Eric says the way his eyes are built is another physiological characteristic he shares with Great Whites. It gives him a slight disadvantage of farsightedness, but it’s never been much of a problem. He can see in detail at distances of over fifty feet in exchange, and it’s not like he’s a microbiologist working with lab equipment, or even an avid book reader, or anything.

He does own a pair of glasses, though. He just never wears them where anyone can see.

He recognizes Rick Grimes’ silhouette in one of the booths located to the side of the room. He observes the man for a moment from where he’s invisible to him as of yet. Rick Grimes is alone, nursing a beer and doing something on his phone. He’s wearing a dark gray shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he’s got a pair of sunglasses sitting on top of his wavy hair. Even from this distance, Daryl can see those incredibly blue eyes, and he realizes their color wasn’t an effect of the lighting conditions in the aquarium after all. He licks his lips, then takes a deep breath and moves.

He approaches the booth and puts on the most self-confident smirk he can manage as he slides into the seat. “Hullo,” he says and mentally kicks himself because, _ fuck, shoulda come up with somethin’ witty_. But he literally couldn’t: those electrifying eyes are on him, just like back in the aquarium when everyone else was looking at the Great Whites, and it makes his damn head spin.

“Oh, hello,” Rick Grimes greets him with a wide and friendly smile. “I’m so glad you’re here. I gotta admit, for a while there I thought you wouldn’t show up,” he says and Daryl thinks his heavily accented voice is incredibly alluring; he could listen to this man talk for hours. 

“Said I’d be here,” he points out, shrugging like he’s indifferent when in fact, he’s anything but. Damn, but it’s too hot in the bar, or rather it’s just him getting all worked up since his body doesn’t exactly feel the changes in temperatures until they go to what’s considered extreme for a typical human. Sighing, Daryl takes off the jacket and folds it, deposits it on the seat deeper in the booth. He looks up and notices the way Rick Grimes’ eyes roam over his shoulders and arms. There’s a hint of longing, a sort of primal hunger in the man’s gaze, and Daryl wonders if Rick Grimes would consider leaving bite marks all over him if he asked. 

The thought makes him blush. Beer. He only came out here to have a beer. He isn’t going to have sex tonight because this is not a date. Even if it was a date, he still wouldn’t have sex tonight, and his damn human friends can take their opinions and shove them wherever.

He orders a beer when a waitress walks by the booth, and he makes an attempt to _ not _ look up at Rick Grimes again. The man across from him chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like he’s laughing at Daryl’s social ineptitude: he sounds sheepish, like he’s awkward. Daryl doesn’t get why someone as breathtaking as Rick Grimes would ever need to feel awkward.

“Earlier, in the aquarium,” Rick Grimes says, “I kinda lay it on thick, and I’m sorry. I guess I got too much into my character’s head?”

“Huh? What, yer an actor or something?” Daryl asks, frowning in confusion.

The waitress brings his beer and smiles prettily at both of them, though her gaze lingers on Rick Grimes. It’s difficult to tell one person’s scent from another’s in such a crowded place, but Daryl can bet the young blonde smells of sexual interest. He glares at her, overcome with a possessiveness he didn’t know he was capable of - a possessiveness he is not entitled to, but can’t help displaying - and the woman quickly scoots away.

“Writer,” Rick Grimes says, oblivious to the battle for his attentions that just took place. His smile is just for Daryl, and it makes Daryl feel even warmer inside and out. “I’m actually at the research stage for my new novel, and well, when I’m in a certain mindset, I tend to get too much into my hero’s head sometimes.”

Daryl nods, pretending he can understand or even relate. He’s got no idea how writing shit works, he has no imagination for it, but it makes sense. Still, he has to fight down the pang of disappointment at the information which comes along with a revelation: “Uh-huh. So yer not real interested in me?”

Rick Grimes laughs softly. Even in the dim lighting, Daryl can see the man is blushing. Good. It’s nice not to be the only one of them doing that for a change, even if Daryl doesn’t quite get why Rick Grimes is reacting this way at all. 

“Oh no, that’s not it. You-you’re very interesting. Uh. Yeah, that’s one word for it,” the man mutters and licks his lips. Daryl looks away because if this is just a beer date and not a _ date_-date, he’s not supposed to stare at the tip of the other man’s tongue as it peeks out to wet the plump lower lip.

Rick Grimes finishes sheepishly, “It’s just that, I normally wouldn’t have asked you out. Wouldn’t have been brave enough.”

Daryl hums in reply, taking a swig of his beer. It’s the cheapest they have and it tastes rather foul. Most things do that aren’t meat; that’s just the way Daryl’s taste buds are designed. He still eats and drinks stuff most humans do, if only to pass as one better. Plus normally, Carol tends to harp on him if he doesn’t ingest enough vitamins, never mind that meat is plenty vitamin-y as far as he’s concerned. While there probably aren’t any vitamins in beer, Daryl supposes he should try not to make a face at the taste either way, if he wants to blend in and look normal in the eyes of Rick Grimes. Apparently, beer is the type of beverage human males typically enjoy a lot. It’s supposed to be a mark of their masculinity, or something. Daryl doesn’t know. He just observed that very often, liking this sort of drink is associated with being manly.

“So, sharks,” Rick Grimes says. He drinks some of his beer, then licks the froth off his lips. Daryl definitely doesn’t follow the movement of his tongue with his eyes because that would go beyond the scope of something a guy does when he’s _ not _on a date. “Now, how does a guy like you get such an unusual interest? You said you’re not a scientist.”

“Watched a lotta National Geographic as a pup,” Daryl retorts, then immediately corrects himself: “As a child.”

“Pup, that’s what baby sharks are called?” Rick Grimes guesses with an incredulous grin, like he’s not sure Daryl’s not making fun of him. “Shark puppy, doesn’t sound all that threatening.”

“They’s like, born with teeth,” Daryl informs earnestly. “Great Whites, but others too. Hatch in mama’s belly, grow big with good nice teeth an’ just eat unfertilized eggs ‘til it’s time to come out, ready to survive on ‘ere own.”

Rick Grimes blinks, then laughs again, and yeah, Daryl likes the sound of his laughter. He’s feeling unreasonably proud of himself for being the cause of it. The corners of the man’s eyes crinkle as he laughs, and there are those lines on his face Daryl noticed earlier, those laughter lines that suggest he’s generally a happy person, and it just makes Daryl want to make him happy even more. He wants to be the reason Rick Grimes is happy. 

He thinks he should have asked his friends for advice about romance instead of the pointless sex talk that didn’t even explain anything because he still wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do in a sexual situation. Maybe Aaron was right, maybe they all should’ve just told him how humans date each other, _ explicitly _. It would’ve been more useful than their vague hints about how sharks mate and how it’s similar or different to the way humans go about it. Dating, that’s a field Daryl, with his non-existent social skills, could really use some guidance in. He can only hope he doesn’t screw it up too badly tonight; he can only hope Rick Grimes will want to see him again in spite of everything.

“So, you’re basically saying, they’re called pups, but they’re really scary toothy monsters from hell?” Rick Grimes jokes. 

Daryl shakes his head, chuckling. “Naw, they’s cute. Tiny, no more ‘n five feet when they’s born. Ain’t real scary.”

“Um, okay, is there a shark you’d actually call scary, though?” Rick Grimes asks, dubious. And, yeah, he has a point. Daryl doesn’t find Henry scary after having almost ended up eviscerated by him. If a twelve-foot Great White whose teeth retrieved from his own abdomen serve him as a necklace doesn’t scare him, he’s pretty sure there’s not a shark in existence that could.

“Probably not,” he eventually agrees.

Rick Grimes laughs softly. “You’re amazing, you know that? How’d you end up working in Alexandria Institute, anyway? Thought it was a purely scientific facility, all professors and doctors and the like.”

“Naw,” Daryl replies, even though he’s very much aware he’s the only employee of the Institute who hasn’t even finished high school. With the exception of a few janitors and the part-time staff in the cafeteria, everyone else has a science degree, even the tank cleaners. Daryl’s the odd man out, but he’s uh, _ otherwise qualified _. 

He’s also very much aware that he’s blushing _ yet again _, simply because Rick Grimes called him amazing. He hopes he’ll remember the exact timbre of the man’s voice when he said that. He wants to dream about it. He wants to think about it day and night. He wants to do - unspecified, naughty things, while thinking about it.

“You’re not very talkative, are you?” Rick Grimes teases.

Daryl resists the urge to start biting on his fingernails which is a nervous habit he certainly shouldn’t indulge in when in public. “Ain’t never had much interestin’ to say. Not unless it’s ‘bout sharks,” he mutters. He quickly downs the remainder of his beer. 

“I doubt that,” Rick Grimes says. “But for the sake of your self-confidence, let’s talk more about sharks,” he suggests. “I’ve been doing some research… for my book, you see… and I was really hoping for that _ rogue shark _ thing to have been real. You completely sure it’s not?”

“Huh,” Daryl replies. “Well. I ain’t met one,” he supplies, “ain’t never seen evidence of one. Not with Great Whites, that’s for sure. But if yer into the creepy shit, try with oceanic whitetips, their feedin’ frenzy thing’s kinda terrifyin’ and they’s known for targettin’ humans. Shipwrecks and fallen aircraft survivors, mostly. Or bulls, if the story’s not planted on some cruiser ship or stuff. Bull sharks can live in rivers, even upstream, don’t mind sweet waters. Don’t really attack people much, but they could? I guess. There was a story in like, 1916, a series of deadly bites. Most’a them happened in creekwater, so I wouldn’t say’s a Great White, though there were some dudes sayin’ so. Bull’s more likely,” he pauses, suddenly realizing he’s been rambling. But Rick Grimes looks interested, so Daryl adds: “Y’know, we got one we’s sure he killed a human at least once.”

“In the Oceanarium?” Rick Grimes asks, eyes widening. 

Daryl nods. “Divin’ tank,” he says and wonders if he should be telling the man about it. The Institute hasn’t officially released information about the newest resident. Aaron said it’s because they don’t want to get anyone too interested before they can make sure Joe can be socialized at least to the point that cage diving would be possible. Well, it’s not like Rick Grimes can do anything stupid like go there unsupervised to see the shark or something. The aquarium’s security isn’t airtight, true, but visitors aren’t allowed to the shark rooms without someone from the staff present, and nobody in their right mind would let a random dude anywhere near the diving tank even if its resident shark weren’t a crazy bastard. 

“The tank you didn’t want the kids to touch,” Rick Grimes remembers and hums thoughtfully. “Isn’t that a strange decision, though? To keep a killer shark where people dive?”

“We wanna try make him sociable. Gonna work on him later,” Daryl replies. Then follows up quickly with, “Not me of course, I ain’t nobody that important. We gots a pro. Guy’s like a shark tamer thingy. Ain’t afraid of ‘em, so’s they respect him. Got lotsa experience ‘n all.”

“Experience doesn’t always win out against a jaw full of sharp teeth,” Rick Grimes points out. “Especially when the owner of the teeth is in his natural environment.”

Daryl agrees, but he’s still excited about the prospect of interaction with a shark who might be wilfully dangerous. Until now, the sharks he met have always been neutral, and he’s pretty sure none of them ever bit a human on purpose. The bull he’s going to try to interact with, it’s a challenge. Daryl really likes challenges. And he’s got a jaw full of sharp teeth, too, even if his are small and ridiculous; his real advantage lies in the fact his brain is bigger and he thinks quicker than any fish ever could.

He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he says, “Y’know, dunno if it’s a good idea, that book yer writin’. Sharks been shown as those vicious human-killin’ monsters a long time, when’s it all down to like. Less than a hundred bites a year. Fifty-somethin’ here in the States. Only a handful for the Aussies. And almost none’s ended up with dead victims.”

“You’re worried about a shark panic?” Rick Grimes asks, then motions to the waiter passing by for another beer. The waitress from before is conspicuously absent. 

“There was one after _ Jaws_,” Daryl admits, resisting the urge to gnaw at his lower lip or at the cuticles of his thumbs. “Got lotsa Great Whites killed for nothin’ since the nineties. They’s a vulnerable species now. Y’all so worried yer gonna get eaten, but you sure as hell ain’t gonna stop eatin’ _ them_. Ain’t gonna lie, dunno ‘bout the stats, but guys at the Institute tell me it’s like, over a million killed sharks for every known incident of shark bite, each damn year. And guys at the Institute know their thing, right? So between humans an’ damn killer whales, with the reproduction rates, no Great White’s gonna be left in a few years.”

Rick Grimes frowns, like this information is new to him somehow. If that’s the truth, then he’s not much of a researcher. Or maybe he’s one of those guys who prefer to ignore facts which don’t fit into their theory. He doesn’t seem like the type, but to be honest, Daryl doesn’t know a thing about the man, and he really can’t be relying on scent and hormonal responses in his judgement. Even if that scent drives him crazy.

He wants the man to bite him so much, he can barely stay in his seat. His pants feel tight and his hands feel clammy. He’s been suppressing that relentless urge to bite his own lower lip in fear of showing teeth, but he knows he’s going to need a distraction soon, lest he do something stupid. Rick Grimes makes him stupid.

The man shakes his head, smiles to Daryl, and everything about him is so appealing. Daryl’s instincts are telling him that this man is perfect, that he’s all Daryl needs in a mate, and it’s bullshit because it makes no sense - biologically - for Daryl to want to mate with a man. He should be looking for a woman, a strong one who could bear his pups, he should want to procreate, not to have a man bite him and mount him and do all those pointless things to him that two males could do together. Why desire something that does not result in offspring?... 

Though, Daryl doesn’t even want to sire pups. He likes pups, he loves Sophia and he has fun teaching small humans about sharks; but he’s never wanted his own. He wouldn’t be a good dad, and anyway, any offspring of his would likely end up like him: neither human nor shark. An outsider to either world, always in danger, never belonging. He’s not like his momma. He’s not gonna do that to a helpless pup.

New beers are brought and Rick Grimes says something Daryl doesn’t catch, lost in thought. When the man’s voice registers, Daryl looks up, confused and embarrassed, and Rick Grimes just smiles at him even wider. His human teeth are so non-threatening, blunt and small, and yet Daryl would gladly give his left arm to have them sink into his flesh and break skin. There’s something fundamentally wrong with him.

“I’m sorry,” Rick Grimes says, “I know it’s not like that, I know it’s just having friendly beer and nothing else. But God, you’re adorable.”

Daryl scoffs. “Ain’t,” he argues. “Pups are adorable. Fluffy animals are. Me, I ain’t neither. So don’cha say that.”

“Can’t help it though,” Rick Grimes announces. He might be emboldened by the beer he’s consumed, or maybe by something else entirely. Maybe he can sense the way Daryl’s skin burns for his touch. Maybe he’s as much a predator as a Great White in the depths. 

He says, “You’re pretty and you’re cute, and I haven’t had so much fun talking to someone in, I dunno, years probably. You sure we can’t… you know… make this a date?”

Daryl shakes his head, but there’s not much resistance left in him. He’d like to deny the man because giving in would be dangerous. For both of them. Rick Grimes is delicate, his skin is soft and couldn’t withstand the assault of Daryl’s teeth, which he’s not sure he could stop himself from using; the urge to bite, to mark his territory, to leave a scar, it might be too strong. Daryl doesn’t want to hurt him. Not only because he wants Rick Grimes happy; there’s a practical reason, too: if he harms the man, even by accident, it’s going to get ugly. He might be taken away, his secrets might come out to the wrong people. After what happened with Merle, he knows there are places where creatures like Daryl are prodded and poked, experimented on. He’d rather die than have that happen to him.

“I… gotta go,” he mutters, standing up. “Got shit to do tonight.”

“Daryl,” Rick Grimes says, pleading, but Daryl turns to the exit, attempting to ignore the way that tone makes him want to give in and abandon all of his defenses.

He groans when the man’s hand closes around his wrist, pulling softly, stopping him from leaving. Rick Grimes’ fingers are warm and soft, but calloused, like they’re used to physical work. 

“Please,” he all but whimpers, close to begging, and he hates it. “Don’t make it what it ain’t.”

“Daryl,” Rick Grimes repeats, saying his name like it’s something precious. “You don’t need to be scared of me. I promise, I won’t do anything you don’t want. Just… sit back down, please? Let’s talk some more. About sharks. Or something else if you wanna. Just don’t run away. I’ll stop doing this. I’ll stop making you uncomfortable. Okay?”

Daryl looks down at the floor, wondering why it’s so easy to just let Rick Grimes talk him into staying. He returns to his seat, aware that his face is flushed and that the man’s hand is still touching his skin, warm fingers drawing lazy circles on his wrist. But as soon as Daryl’s sitting down, the hand retreats and Rick Grimes clears his throat.

“So, uh. Tell me more about the Great Whites. You sure seem to know a lot about them,” he suggests in a light tone, and Daryl licks his lips. 

“I’ll have sex with you,” he says softly, almost inaudible over the ambient noises of the bar. 

The words have a slightly different effect than what he expected. Rick Grimes looks startled, his cheeks go pink and his eyes widen, and he blinks, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he responds.

“It’s… it’s not all that I want, though,” he says, then sighs and shakes his head. “God, you’re sorta hard to follow, aren’t you? Daryl,” he looks at him, and he sounds exasperated and fond at the same time as he says Daryl’s name again, like he loves the feel of it on his tongue. “I’m not after you for sex. I like you. I genuinely like you, okay? It’s been a long time since I liked someone so much as a person. And I want to get to know you. Yes, you’re cute, but it’s more than that, to me. More than your looks. You’re interesting. The way you talk about sharks, the passion you have, I mean, seriously, I came here thinking sharks were just mindless killing machines, or worse. You’re changing my mind though. Listening to you, I’m getting interested in the subject. Because it’s something you’re invested in and I want to understand your point of view.”

“... but you don’t wanna have sex with me,” Daryl concludes, and he wills himself to not show that he’s disappointed. 

Rick Grimes shakes his head again. “I do,” he assures, “God knows I do, but it’s not the only thing I want from you. And I don’t necessarily want it right now. Like I said, I’d like to know you first. Who you are, what you like, how to make you laugh, all that. I want to try dating you.”

“Never dated anyone,” Daryl confesses shyly. 

“How’s that possible?” Rick Grimes asks, clearly baffled at the information.

“Never been interested,” Daryl replies with a huff, trying to mask embarrassment with faked irritation. He knew it’s considered a bit weird for humans not to get involved with others romantically, but he never actually thought about how that makes _ him _ seem weird. “Ain’t never wanted to have sex neither,” he confesses. Because he’s already weird, so the situation can’t get any worse. “Yer the first, Rick Grimes.”

“Well, fuck,” the man murmurs under his breath, and his entire face darkens with a blush. Daryl wonders if what he just said is bad or something. If he should be ashamed. But he doesn’t feel ashamed. Damn. He should’ve insisted the guys told him about dating after all. He could use that information right now. 

“Do you call everyone by the full name?” Rick Grimes asks, redirecting the subject onto safer waters. Daryl shrugs and licks his lips.

“Because I’d really like it if you could just call me by my first name.”

“Rick?” Daryl mutters softly, testing how the man’s given name sounds on his tongue. He likes it. It’s easy to say. Short, efficient. Pretty.

“Yeah,” Rick Grimes - _ no, Rick, just Rick_, says. “Like that. Full name’s just too formal, nobody ever spoke to me like that.”

“I call people what they wanna be called,” Daryl explains awkwardly. He wonders if there’s one thing in his interactions with people he doesn’t do wrong. He should just dive in the ocean and never resurface. Maybe then he wouldn’t keep making a fool out of himself.

“Then just _ Rick _ is fine,” Rick assures him and smiles, the light in his blue, blue eyes illuminating Daryl’s entire world. He’s drowning in the depths of Rick’s warmth, and he’s not sure he wants it to stop. 

“Hey. Do you wanna try this _ dating _ thing? With me?”

Daryl nods, feeling more than slightly dazed. “Yeah, okay,” he says, breathless, and coughs once to clear his throat. “Just. Don’t laugh if I do somethin’ stupid, ‘kay? Yer gonna hafta tell me shit. Teach me.”

Rick nods, still smiling - _he looks happy, Daryl’s made him happy _ \- and he brushes Daryl’s hand with his fingers, draws little circles right above his wrist joint, presses the soft caress into Daryl’s skin like a promise; and for once, Daryl lets himself be touched.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I've run into issues in real life (finalizing the move to the new apartment is time-consuming and absolutely exhausting, but... guys, you wouldn't believe how liberating and amazing it is to finally live somewhere of my own!)

About half an hour later, a group of loud-mouthed guys come into the bar, shouting from the entrance that it was one of theirs’ bachelor’s party and they’re going to _ get this party started_. The bar becomes too noisy to continue to talk after that, so Rick suggests a walk on the beach instead. Daryl agrees easily because the crowd is starting to make him nervous again, and he thinks that maybe the vicinity of the ocean might calm him down.

It really doesn’t, though.

Daryl is aware he’s generally considered weird even by the people who’d genuinely say they like him. They talk sometimes, forgetting his superior hearing or just not realizing it’s a thing, and they comment on how he doesn’t laugh in front of others, he doesn’t eat out in public unless there’s only a handful of his closest friends present, he doesn’t even yawn; it’s all in an attempt to hide the teeth from those who shouldn’t see. He bites his fingertips and nails to the point of bleeding if he doesn’t take care to restrain the reflex to do it. He barely blinks because he doesn’t need to, and he shies away from any sort of physical contact. Carol and Sophia are the only people who are allowed to touch him without warning, but even they don’t do it because they know it makes Daryl uncomfortable. It’s both a remainder from the childhood spent in his abusive father’s home, and another attempt to hide his own unhuman nature: while he sweats less than others, he still does sometimes, and his skin takes on the shark-like, sandpaper-rough quality when it’s damp. His skin teeth aren’t as pronounced as in an actual Great White which is why they’re not even detectable when he’s dry, but they’re enough to cause injury when wet. 

Rick doesn’t know any of that, and as it turns out, he’s a truly affectionate man: he wants to touch Daryl all the damn time.

And really, it’s not so bad at first, just a bit weird when Rick’s fingers skim over Daryl’s jacket-clad arm or softly brush against his side as they walk. The street is a bit dark and Daryl understands that with his humanly inferior night vision, Rick probably requires reassurance that Daryl is still present and knows where he is leading them. So he doesn’t mind these small touches through clothes, he’s even proud to be useful to the man he already thinks of as _ potential mate_. He wants to seem strong and impressive to Rick, and guiding him through the night is one of the things he can do to accomplish that.

But then, they find themselves at the beach,and the moonlight is bright tonight, and there’s really no need for Rick to continue to seek Daryl out. Yet, he still does. He talks animatedly and Daryl mostly just listens to the sound of the man’s voice, letting it distract him from the hand gently petting his forearm.

“My first book was sort of a flop,” Rick says, lets out an embarrassed chuckle. “All writing teachers always say to write what you know, but that’s bullshit. I tried, really. Was a cop for a few years, so my first story was ‘bout a small-town cop who got involved in some stuff, things way above his level,” he shrugs. “Got rejected by all but one low-profile publisher and the critics ate me alive. Apparently my self-based character was _ boring as fuck_.”

Daryl blinks. “Yer interestin’ though,” he assures, because it’s true. He’s been fascinated with the way light catches in Rick’s blue eyes and the way his hair curls and with the sparse flecks of gray in his beard, and it’s all just from looking at him right now in the moonlight. He can’t wait to get to know the man better, to learn everything else there is to know about him that he can become just as enraptured with. 

Rick laughs. “Not for readers, seems like. Well, in my next book, I made the character as much _ unlike _me as I could. Made him a real bad-ass, the type to give those great motivational speeches in times of need, an action hero, not afraid to get his hands bloody and all. Handsome, too, a real heartthrob. And I chose a fantasy setting, too, with zombies, only nobody calls them zombies, and- you know, doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t even read that if it wasn’t mine. It’s a second rate horror story at best, but somehow, it’s now gotten famous. Turns out, people don’t like small-town cop drama, but they really want zombies. There’s been talks about film rights, and my publisher’s pressing me for new books to ride this wave of popularity. Am I talking too much?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Nah,” he assures. “Keep tellin’ me shit. I’m good at listenin’.”

It’s actually rather difficult for him to really concentrate on what the man’s talking about, though, to follow the flow of this mostly one-sided conversation, because Rick’s curious, wandering hand can’t seem to rest in one spot for longer than a few seconds. It brushes over Daryl’s arm only to move to Rick’s own as he rubs at his neck or scratches his beard, and Daryl can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes. So he listens to the tone of Rick’s voice instead, barely registering when the subject changes from zombies - whatever they are, really - to an anecdote about Rick’s son Carl, and then to the town in the suburbs of Atlanta Rick used to live in.

“I’m not going back, though, not any time soon,” the man says eventually, “I rented out a house here in Virginia Beach. It’s right by the shore, almost outside of the city boundaries. Thought it’d feel better to write the new shark story from here. You know, where I’m close to actual sharks.”

“Why not Cape Cod, then? Plenty of sharks there,” Daryl asks, and Rick pats him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. The touch is fleeting, but leaves a curious tingling sensation spreading all over Daryl’s arm, like all of the other touches before but not quite; it’s becoming more and more, _ something,_ and Daryl has trouble processing the sensory overload it’s causing him. Nobody ever touches him this much, not even Sophia, not since she was really tiny and was only just learning. It’s overwhelming. 

“Oh, funny,” Rick says. “Cape Cod hate their sharks. You should know that, Mister Shark Know-It-All. They’ve been blaming sharks for flopping tourism in the recent years.”

“Stupid,” Daryl mutters. “Look at us. Lotsa tourism ‘round here for them sharks specifically. What else’s so interestin’ ‘bout a beach anyway? People can sunbathe anywhere.”

Rick shakes his head, chuckling, and squeezes Daryl’s forearm lightly. “You said you’re scared a horror book about sharks could cause a shark panic. But what if it made sharks popular instead? I mean, people love to be scared, and your Institute could benefit from the increased revenue-”

“‘s not about money,” Daryl protests, because it’s not. Even though he knows the Institute could use any additional resources, he doesn’t want them to come from a place of fear. The aquarium and their sharks could maybe benefit, like Rick says, but what about the wild sharks out there? People would always continue to kill them, but if there’s a new wave of panic caused by another horror story… It won’t really matter there’s no basis in reality, people will start to feel that mass-slaughter of sharks is justified. 

That’s what happens when an animal isn’t considered _ cute_. Somehow, Daryl hasn't heard of anybody who tries to slaughter all killer whales. Nobody considers writing a horror book about _ them _either, as far as he knows, even though they’re infinitely creepier than the hungriest shark in the deep. 

“I didn’t say it was,” Rick assures. “But money helps when you need to implement protection plans. Campaigns to raise awareness, your Institute’s shark tracking program, rescue missions, it all costs a lot, Daryl. Now if only people realized how interesting sharks are…”

Daryl scoffs. There are different kinds of people who get interested in sharks, but those who go around throwing money at shark-related facilities aren’t the kind Daryl wants near any fish at all. Aaron told him a big name restaurant tycoon came to the Institute one day with an offer to sponsor some research in exchange for pups because young meat tastes better. No deal, of course, but that was one of the less outrageous offers the Institute’s had to come to terms with and learn to ignore. Different oceanic species can be used for various things, after all. The so-called Big Pharma expressed some interest in conducting research multiple times, most recently on the medical use of vitamin oil found in the livers of some shark species. Then of course, there are private collectors who come all the time and inquire about the sharks in the Institute, trying to purchase them and keep them in tiny tanks, in poor conditions, to satisfy their own selfish desire to own something rare, scary and beautiful all at once.

Everyone wants to exploit sharks. That group seems to include Rick Grimes, even if the man is oblivious to the potential harm his eagerness to write about sharks could cause. He doesn’t know better. Maybe doesn’t want to.

“Gotta go home,” Daryl says softly, and licks his lower lip. Rick frowns, looking confused and hurt all at once, and he tries to take Daryl’s hand in his. 

Daryl bats it away. “Stop touchin’ me, man,” he demands, taking a step back. “What the fuck’s wrong with ya? Why’s you gotta touch me all the fuckin’ time?”

Daryl’s… angry, he realizes in that moment when he hears himself all but yell at the man he’s agreed to date just a little while earlier. He’s angry, and he doesn’t even know why. He can feel his heart beating way too fast and he can hear the blood buzzing in his veins, and it feels like he’s being boiled alive, from the inside, making it difficult to think. He’d only been this angry with somebody once in his life, ten years ago, when Ed Peletier tried to kill his wife and Daryl stopped him.

Rick hasn’t done anything wrong, though. There’s absolutely no reason for Daryl to be so angry with him. It’s stupid, it’s irrational, it’s. It's not like him. He’s not being himself, and he doesn’t understand why he’s acting the way he is. 

“Just… let me go, man,” he mumbles, trying to act more subdued, a bit more, well, normal. It doesn't work and he notices his hands are shaking. He just needs space to breathe. He needs time, needs to chill and get himself under some semblance of control. Everything is too much. The smell of the ocean in his nostrils, filling his lungs, and Rick Grimes standing there with his hands, his voice, and his pretty, pretty eyes. It’s too much.

Rick looks at him, his gaze searching, inquisitive, and apparently, he finds the answer he’s looking for because he nods and stands back, doesn’t attempt to touch Daryl again. Slowly, he turns towards the ocean, and his eyes follow the movement of a distant light on the sky: an airplane or a satellite, or a shooting star, something. Without looking back at Daryl, the man speaks, his voice soft and gentle like he’s trying not to spook him and soothe him instead:

“Will I see you again?”

Hesitantly, aware that he couldn’t stay away for too long even if he tried, Daryl nods, then realizes Rick can’t see him from where he's standing. He sighs, then says, “Yeah,” and he doesn’t know what to do next.

He's almost sure he should cut it off while it’s still possible, before he gets too involved, before they both do. He shouldn’t seek Rick out again. He’s acting irrational in the man’s company, his emotions overflow and it’s so damn confusing, for both of them. He's positive now that this strange behavior is his own take on what the mating process is like; presumably, in Great Whites, higher hormone levels in both males and females cause heightened aggression, which in turn results in the mating itself. To a bystander, it may sometimes look like a vicious fight for dominance, maybe even a feeding frenzy with all the brutal biting that goes on before the act itself. This anger, Daryl realizes, is a bit like that. He wants to fight Rick. Hit him. Bite him. Put his hands and his mouth on the man’s body, and- do something, with him, with their bodies, do… things. He’s not exactly sure what, but… something.

He wishes he could ask Merle about it. He regrets he didn’t, when he had that chance. His brother’s experienced, had sex as soon as he was bulky enough to pass for an adult at a bar and buy beer. He remembers now, how sometimes Merle would become louder, angrier, acting like he wanted nothing better than to snap at anyone daring to cross him; how he’d realize something was wrong and say it was time he found a willing broad to _ get his rocks off _ with. Daryl wasn’t interested in what it meant back then, he wasn’t interested in sex and its mechanics, but also in the things that accompany the process itself. He never found out and now he can’t because Merle is who-knows-where, unlikely to ever come back. And Daryl doesn’t know how best to proceed. Should he walk away from Rick, never to see him again, or should he go for it, follow his instincts and do- stuff? Some stuff. Sex stuff, whatever _ that _ even is.

Fuck, he needs to clear his head. He also needs to find Eric and ask him about this shit that’s happening to him; if anyone could have answers, it’s Eric with his lab equipment and his blood-drawing kit, and his kind face and his lectures. Eric could tell if Daryl is just hormonal. It would explain why he wants Rick to bite him so much. Because, yeah, he still does, even if he doesn’t want the man to touch him all the same. He still wants Rick to hold him down, pin him to the ground and bite him. And he wants to bite back, to taste the man but not his flesh, and he doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know! It’s so damn complicated-

“I’ll leave you alone now,” Rick says softly. “Ummm. My business card, it’s got my phone number… in case you want to meet. I’ll put it here,” he adds, and Daryl hears the rustling of the man’s clothing as Rick crouches to place a card in the sand. “I’m sorry I offended you-”

“Ya didn’t,” Daryl replies firmly. He licks his lower lip. “‘s not that. I just. Dunno what I’m doin’ here, m’kay? Need time to think.”

“I’ll give you all the time you need,” Rick promises earnestly. “And, Daryl, hey… if I’m being particularly obnoxious about this stuff, you need to tell me, okay? I’ve only ever dated one person and she was my wife for a decade. I don’t really know what I’m doing either.”

For some reason, the admission is so damn funny, Daryl can’t help but laugh. He then makes the mistake of looking at Rick and the face the man makes expresses pure injured pride, like he thinks Daryl’s laughing at his lack of experience or something silly like that; it makes Daryl laugh even harder, that look of incredulous, hurt feelings, and so he laughs, his entire body shaking, his hand covering his mouth - mindful of the teeth even through his mirth. It lasts for a good moment, Daryl laughing and Rick just standing there, staring at him, apparently uncertain whether he should take offense and leave or just join in. He bites down on his lower lip, then apparently decides Daryl’s sudden burst of good humor is a good thing and he smiles tentatively. 

Eventually, Daryl’s laughter dies down, though he can barely stop grinning. He plops down in the sand and reaches back for Rick’s business card. He examines it and chuckles softly when he notes the big, pretentious cursive font. He can’t really read anything but the name, _ Richard A. Grimes_, because the rest of the text is blurry. He doesn’t mind. He’ll copy the phone number later, once he’s back in his apartment with nobody to see him wearing glasses. 

“So yer actually, Richard, huh,” he says, and he realizes that all of a sudden, his entire previous aggression is gone. Whatever’s happening to him, the mood swings are so abrupt, Daryl’s having trouble following himself. He wouldn’t blame Rick if the man decided it’s not worth it to devote his time to someone who’s so obviously insane. 

“Nope, my name’s actually just Rick,” Rick replies and shrugs. “I also don't have a middle name, so the A's just there for the hell of it. My publisher thought _ Richard _ sounded more mature, like a real adult fiction writer. I suppose he also wanted to make sure nobody remembered my first book, it was published under my real name. He hoped no-one would make the connection.”

“Did they?” Daryl asks and pats the sand next to where he’s sitting.

Rick sits down next to him, cross-legged, and makes his hands busy with forming a small sandcastle. “Not really,” he admits. “Though, you know what? Not gonna lie, I wish someone did. I’m still fond of that first book. It was more personal, I guess. More, I don’t know, me.”

Daryl hums, then smirks at the man. “Wha’s the title? Maybe I’ll wanna read it. Judge for myself if you’s such a terrible writer.”

Rick chuckles, and it seems the tension between the two of them might be lifting. “_This Sorrowful Life_,” he says, then smiles somewhat bashfully. “Yeah, the title’s not very reassuring, but I swear, it’s not an awful book. I’m just bad at titles.”

Daryl doesn’t think the title sounds any worse or any better than any other books he’s heard of. At least it makes more sense than _ Catcher in the Rye_. He thinks. It’s hard to say because he hasn’t read the latter. But he thinks he will read Rick’s book. He makes a mental note to ask Carol to buy it for him next time she’s out shopping. 

“I really gotta go now,” he says eventually, looking down at Rick’s sandcastle which has become bigger as they kept sitting next to each other, not close enough to touch, but still close enough for Daryl to be able to feel the warmth radiating off of Rick’s skin. “Should I walk ya home or somethin’?”

“Nah, I think I’ll walk you and get a cab to my place. It’s farther off,” Rick replies. He stands up and offers his hand to Daryl, to help him up.

Daryl grabs it and lets Rick pull him up. Then, when he’s steady on his feet, he makes a split-second decision and entwines his fingers with Rick’s. His intention is to hold the man’s hand briefly, squeeze it maybe, to reassure him that there’s no hard feelings leftover from before. But… it’s just. So nice. Rick’s hand in his, their fingers wrapped together, it feels right. Unlike all previous touches, it doesn’t seem threatening, probably because Daryl instigated it this time; he wonders if it means he’s going to have to take initiative in all of their encounters. He decides he doesn’t mind it, not so much, he just needs to do some research about _ what _ he’s supposed to do. Then he can surprise Rick with touches of his own. He can't wait.

Holding hands is a start, and they do it for the whole duration of the walk to the Institute and then a bit longer as they’re waiting for Rick’s taxi to arrive at the gates. They don’t really talk, but it’s fine, too; Daryl likes Rick silent just as much as he likes his voice, and besides, they’ve already talked a lot today. Isn’t there like a limit to the amount of talking people do per each meeting? Nobody ever taught Daryl about it. He’s going to need to investigate this, too. For Rick, he’s willing to make the effort and learn more about human interactions. 

“Call me,” Rick tells him before he boards the cab, and Daryl misses the warmth of his hand immediately after Rick removes it from his grasp. 

“Mhm,” he hums in reply, a non-verbal promise. “Gonna find some good shit for yer new book, then I’m gonna call ya. Since I probly ain’t gonna stop ya writin’ some bullshit horror story ‘bout sharks, guess the least I can do is help make it accurate.”

Rick laughs and nods. “Alright. I swear it won’t be terrible,” he says, and the little crinkles in the corners of his eyes make Daryl want to smile, because they mean joy, they mean Rick is genuinely happy right at this moment. Happy because of _ him_.

So, emboldened by the sight of those adorable laughter lines, Daryl does the only sex-related thing he somewhat knows how to do from what he’s seen in movies and real life and shit: he leans in and briefly presses his lips to Rick’s, closing his eyes and holding his breath.

And then he immediately steps away, apologizes under his breath and literally runs away, without looking back to see Rick’s reaction. He’s still running when he crosses the deserted hallways, heading to the Biter Tank. He needs a swim. Badly. Right the fuck _ now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up sometime by the end of the week. In it, Daryl deals with amorous sharks, learns new exciting things about his own physiognomy and asks Eric for more sex-ed lessons which may actually be useful this time.


	8. Chapter 8

Henry isn’t around when Daryl dives into the tank, but it seems Lydia has finally given up on the hopeless hunt in the shallow part of the aquarium. She swims to meet Daryl without having to be specifically invited with food, and she pushes her snout right into Daryl’s chest in greeting. Her behavior is not normal for a shark; while gently bumping into obstacles like this is considered a typical investigative maneuver, it’s apparently never been observed as a way of displaying affection in the wild. Sharks in general, and Great Whites especially, aren’t built for affection whatsoever, which might be connected to the fact that their brains allegedly don’t have the capacity for enough emotion to become fond of something.

From his interactions with sharks, especially with Lydia, Daryl knows it’s sort of bullshit. Shark feelings are complex and subtle, and it’s possible they’re imperceptible to humans, but not to him. Affection can be expressed like Lydia does it, and Daryl supposes she saw it in some mammals out there and copied it in regards to the strange mammalian shark swimming in her territory - that creature being Daryl - because she decided it would be more familiar to him. But there are also other ways in which the limited emotional responses can be conveyed between sharks. 

Henry is a good example to study for signs of affection, because there’s no doubt that he considers Daryl something of an equal but also enjoys swimming with him in his own way. He communicates his changing moods through movement of his jaw and tail, in how he sometimes snaps his jaws in Daryl’s direction when he’s annoyed but carefully avoids actually closing his teeth around Daryl’s flesh. His fondness is shown through the things he lets Daryl do around him; he’s displayed amazing patience and acceptance towards everything Daryl’s been attempting to teach him. 

Daryl’s far from anthropomorphizing his Great White friends, he knows they’re nowhere near the human levels of emotional capabilities, they definitely don’t feel or think how he does. They’re much simpler. And, fuck, Daryl wants simpler right now.

Lydia swims alongside him as Daryl glides through the deep. It’s amazing how the electromagnetic receptors on the sides of Daryl’s head and alongside the bridge of his nose can detect even the slightest changes in the shark’s movements. Lydia seems to be livelier today, more energetic than normally at this time of night. She constantly presses her snout into Daryl’s side as they swim and even bares her teeth at him a few times, in a sign Daryl’s taught her to mean _ content._ It’s actually a bit strange that Lydia’s this happy around him. While she definitely likes Daryl’s company, she usually acts a bit less ostentatious about it because she’s the alpha around here after all.

Maybe it’s because they haven’t swam together in a while.

Usually, Daryl doesn’t delve into the further parts of the aquarium, trying to keep his swimming escapades to the area directly below the feeding pool or around it. But tonight, he’s here much earlier than he’d be on a typical night, and it’s actually risky to stay within the same location he usually does: there’s a big chance somebody undesirable might see him. So he directs Lydia towards the deep end of the tank, to the part where the aquarium is connected with the ocean through a large fenced-in gateway.

The Biter Tank is built in a very special way which Daryl thinks must’ve been designed by someone just like him, someone who understands sharks and knows what they need. Besides the tubular corridor running inside of it where the visitors can admire the sharks from, there is no other obstacle for what seems like miles of water. Because it would be incredibly difficult and, unfortunately, even more incredibly expensive to keep up the artificial filtering and saltiness saturation in a tank this size, the architect placed the majority of the tank underwater, built into the shoreline so that at one point, a big chunk of it is actually the ocean itself. It’s a neat little trick which has helped regulate the water temperatures and kept the tank fairly clean. 

The best part about this side of the tank is, it’s not visible from the outside, which means there’s no risk anybody will see Daryl where he’s not supposed to be. He hangs around the fence which emits a low-intensity electromagnetic field that has an additional effect of calming his nerves. It’s nice. He supposes it was also designed this way to make sure the sharks who found themselves at this location wouldn’t try to slam their bodies into the fence to get away. Lydia seems to react to the field just the same as Daryl does, her speed going down a notch as she swims back and forth around Daryl.

This is the perfect place to cool down and examine everything that’s happened today, with Rick.

Rick. 

Daryl has so many thoughts regarding that man, he’s not quite sure he knows where to start. He’s got no prior experiences with sexuality to compare his attraction to Rick to, and it’s in moments like these he wishes, if not Merle, then that his momma was still around. She had two kids; means she at least knew _ something _ about how stuff worked. When Daryl was still little, his momma told him how humans ignore their instincts, but their kind couldn’t go long without acknowledging they were different. Maybe she would’ve explained how Daryl’s mating drive was different to that of a human, too. Maybe she would’ve made it easier to love Rick.

Because Daryl loves Rick, without a shred of doubt. With humans, love doesn’t come so easy, but with sharks, well. It’s all about compatibility, and Daryl can literally smell that Rick is a potentially compatible mate for him. Not for the first time, he realizes how biologically, his species makes no sense.

Lydia bumps into his chest with her nose and Daryl pats her on the side, but the Great White doesn’t seem placated with so little attention. She’s all over him; it’s strange, and for a moment Daryl thinks it might all be because she missed him, but… no. No; it’s not that. How could he not have noticed? Her smell, it’s changed. Completely. Of course.

_ Not happening, big girl _, he thinks, backing away from the shark. Lydia follows and Daryl realizes, he’s in a pinch right now. He’s quite a distance away from any available exit, something that seemed such a good thing just a moment ago, but has now turned out to have been a terrible idea. Daryl knows he couldn’t have predicted Lydia’s behavior, but fuck, he still should have. 

Fucking hormones. His own hormonal response to Rick must’ve worked as a catalyst to Lydia’s mating cycle, and since Daryl’s the only male in the immediate vicinity, she’s acting interested in him. And his screwed up physiognomy makes the shark unable to tell that her chosen potential mate isn’t compatible; she knows his merits as a part of this tank, and she wants to pursue him because in her little mind, he’s got the makings of a good partner.

She probably won’t take the inevitable rejection kindly, either; it’s all about instincts, and in sharks, instincts more often than not mean teeth. He needs to make it a quick escape; the closest exit he can think of is a feeding pool in the shallow end, it’s got a hatch he can use just like his usual entry point to the tank. Hopefully, it’s not locked because Daryl’s not sure he’ll have enough time to set the unlock code.

He pats Lydia on the nose, like he’s petting her, and Lydia snaps her jaws at him; Daryl lunges backwards in the last second, evading her teeth which would’ve likely took off an arm or something more. And just like that, it’s on. 

Normally, he would have no chance in a race against a Great White shark. His maximum swimming speed is a fraction of hers, he can go maybe ten miles per hour if he tries really hard; Lydia, on the other hand, is capable of going thirty, maybe more, and her sleek shape is an advantage against the water resistance. Daryl’s got the element of surprise on his side, though, and his bigger brains. And also, he’s smaller, therefore, he’s capable of going where Lydia definitely won’t fit. 

There’s a cave system at the bottom of the tank. It’s not particularly sturdy, it’s just a frail limestone skeleton covered in coral, designed that way to be home to schools of fish and other creatures. Daryl dives in there anyway because the narrow corridors stretch far into the shallows and there’s a mixture of scents there that might throw Lydia off his scent. He doesn’t count on it, but still, cover is cover and it’s slightly easier to evade a shark when the shark can’t see him. His skin is tingling, all hairs standing on edge as he crawls through the artificial caves. He can feel how close Lydia is, just a thin layer of reef between her and her prey - does she think of him as prey, now that she’s forced to chase him? Is he prey, or is he still potential mate even though he hasn’t expressed interest? What she’s doing, stalking him, it’s not typical predatory behavior for a shark; still, Daryl can’t be sure what will happen if she does catch him. 

Fuck, but he’s pretty sure some people would be interested in writing a thesis on the subject, he’s going to have to talk to Jesus about it. 

The corridor ends all of a sudden in a small ravine, and Daryl curses himself mentally for never having investigated the layout of the coral caves. But when he looks around, Lydia isn’t there; frowning, Daryl engages all of his senses, but other than the normal ripples of water against his skin and some distant echoes of movement. And then his sides tingle, and he slowly looks above.

Lydia is magnificent. Even though she’s very young, she’s already one of the biggest Great Whites this far north at fourteen feet and some eight inches. From his position below her, Daryl can see the scarring on her belly where she was bitten by an even bigger shark. She’s got a lovely pattern on her sides, lighter than Henry’s but reaching further down her underside. Her jaws are open, stretched wide to show off the teeth as she hovers above him, almost motionless, awaiting his movement, and it’s the first time in Daryl’s life he’s actually a bit afraid as he comes to the realization:

Lydia is going to kill him.

Thankfully, becoming aware of that spurs him into action. He’s still got the advantage of a bigger brain, and he remembers something Eric said during that useless _ sex talk _ earlier today: _ people have hands and they’re less slippery than fish _. What he would normally consider a flaw, his hybrid physiognomy that makes his skin rough when in water, is how he’s going to escape.

Most sharks are one amazing hunters underwater, but they also evolved to possess a skill which helps them catch prey reclining on drifting ice or flying low above the surface. Aaron called it _ breaching _. It’s basically an ability to accelerate their speed going upwards to the surface and lunging high into the air. Great Whites are capable of breaching even ten feet above the surface. Daryl doesn’t know how high he can breach, but it’s fine because he’s not going to do that exactly.

He hasn’t tried doing this before, but it doesn’t matter. He exhales, letting a mass of air bubbles out into the water. It draws Lydia’s attention, like he predicted. She lunges down at him, and Daryl lunges upwards and to the side right at the same time; and as the confused shark snaps her jaws, Daryl grabs onto her dorsal fin and holds on for dear life because, fuck, this is going to be a wild ride. 

As expected, Lydia isn’t extremely happy about the way Daryl’s latched onto her, or maybe she’s all too happy because she thinks it’s part of the mating ritual; either way, she bucks to try and throw him off. Daryl’s got strong arms, though, and strong hands with opposing thumbs. After a brief struggle, he manages to sort of straddle Lydia’s back, and he’d ridden a horse before so he knows the basics, but this? This is like riding a fucking tornado filled with teeth. He’s already bleeding, and Lydia fights him like she’s possessed, and Daryl tries to sort of use the shark’s frenzied movement to propel them closer to the surface, but it isn’t working-

And then Henry shows up, sending mixed signals of worried-angry-mine, and Daryl lets go of Lydia’s dorsal fin just in time to avoid Henry’s teeth; and all of a sudden, he’s not of any interest to the sharks who begin fighting, play-fighting, mate-fighting, whatever it’s called. Eyes wide, he looks at Lydia as she aims a mean bite at Henry’s side, and yeah, he’s definitely going to have to get out of here, now.

He’s never swam so fast before. 

He reaches the surface in record time, and it must be the adrenaline pumping through him that makes him break the damn lock on the damn hatch in the feeding pool. He curses loudly even as he chokes on air, and he bleeds profusely from almost everywhere. But he’s gotta do something now, something extremely important; without so much as a thought about his state of undress, Daryl gets up to his feet as soon as his lungs start working properly again, and he runs to the living quarters straight to Aaron’s room.

He doesn’t knock, and it’s a mistake because apparently in spite of owning separate rooms, Aaron and Eric sleep in the same bed - though _ sleep _ might not be an appropriate label for what they’re doing right now; Daryl stands in the entrance to the room, watching, transfixed and perplexed both at what the two men seem to be doing.

Because it looks like they’re hugging, Aaron sprawled on top of Eric, but they’re also moving their hips rhythmically and breathing heavily, and they’re both making strange sounds like they’re in pain; but the air doesn’t smell like pain at all, it smells like _ arousal _ and _ yes _ and _ more. _It takes Daryl a moment to understand what they’re doing, and once he does, he’s torn between the urge to flee as far as possible - and the inexplicable desire to watch. Neither Aaron nor Eric seem to have realized he’s there, both of them too immersed in what they’re doing together, and Daryl, almost in spite of himself, takes a step inside the room as quietly as he can, closes the door, locks it and ducks behind the dresser next to the entrance, suddenly fully aware what he’s doing is wrong.

But there’s not turning back now, so Daryl watches from his poorly-chosen hiding spot as the two men in the bed share a long kiss, completely different than what Daryl did with Rick earlier. After a moment, Aaron breaks the kiss, he starts licking all over Eric’s jaw; then he’s murmuring words in his boyfriend’s ear, words nobody else should be able to hear but Daryl can:

“You’re so pretty, baby, love it how your cock’s all wet for me… ‘m gonna take you in my mouth, gonna see if you taste as good as you sound. You’d like that? You want that, baby?”

Eric nods his head eagerly, and he makes a noise Daryl’s never heard anyone make when Aaron slides down his body to settle under the sheets. Daryl isn’t sure what exactly Aaron does down there, but he has an idea when he hears a sort of slurping sound right when Eric’s back arches off the bed and he throws his arms to hold on to the headboard. His moans grow louder as he begins thrusting his hips up gently, and Aaron makes a sound himself, a soft, muffled groan as he moves between Eric’s legs.

Their mixed scents become stronger, thicker, and Eric’s movement becomes sort of jerky and uncoordinated as he whines and repeats Aaron’s name, and then all of a sudden he arches off the bed again, and he calls out lovingly:

“Oh my god, oh my god, yes, yes, ah, there - ah, fuck, _Daryl_!”

The next few minutes are both chaotic and extremely awkward for all three of them. Caught in the act of watching his two friends doing sex stuff, Daryl doesn’t even try to defend himself when Aaron does an impressive feat of jumping out of bed and punching him in square in the jaw in one fluid motion. Fortunately, Daryl’s skin isn’t very wet anymore, so the punch is more painful for him than for Aaron. He reckons he deserved that, and more. He's actually surprised Aaron didn't try to hurt him more severely for encroaching on his intimate encounter with his mate. Curing into himself, sitting on the floor and trying to make himself look small and unassuming, Daryl gnaws on his lower lip mercilessly, wondering if he's going to be forgiven.

“What the hell were you thinking!” Aaron asks incredulously after a few moments, when both he and Eric are more or less dressed. He doesn’t even seem embarrassed, just angry and disbelieving. 

Eric, on the other hand, is both embarrassed and somewhat compassionate. “He was just curious,” he tries to explain, “he probably didn’t even know he was doing something wrong-”

“I knew,” Daryl protests, then looks away guiltily. “Was curious, though. Sorry,” he adds, apologizing for the seventh time in the last quarter hour. 

Aaron glares at him. “We’re not some, some specimens you can observe to satisfy your curiosity. For fuck’s sake, Daryl, you could’ve just asked, we would’ve given you some porn or something! You didn’t need to sneak into my room-”

“Didn’t sneak,” Daryl says, “didn’t mean to… see, or look, or anythin’, okay? I was just tryin'a find y’all ‘cause Lydia tried to bite me an’ now she’s probably in the last courtin’ stages with Henry, an’ I thought you guys needed to know!”

That changes Aaron's focus and derails his entire narrative. 

“You mean… they’re mating? They’re gonna mate?” He asks, excitement bubbling within him. Daryl nods, and Aaron’s eyes widen. He grabs his phone and runs straight to the door. Before he leaves, he looks back at Daryl with one last glare. “We’re gonna talk about this, fish boy, don’t think you’re off the hook,” he warns, then leans in to give Eric a kiss and heads out. His very heated exclamations to whoever he’s talking to on the phone can be heard in the room for a moment longer even after the door closes behind him.

Then Daryl and Eric are alone.

“Ummm,” Daryl says, averting Eric’s gaze. He knows he did something deplorable, intruding on his friends’ intimate moment together. He feels all the worse for it because Eric’s always been nothing but nice and accommodating to him, always so willing to help with matters related to Daryl’s affiliation with both the human and shark species. So now he's ashamed, but he's willing to endure the man's rightful anger with him.

“I’m not angry,” Eric assures him, sitting down on the bed. “Don’t feel too bad. Aaron was just surprised, he’ll get over it, too.”

“Why ain’cha angry?” Daryl asks, then licks his lips. Damn, his lower lip is bleeding. He must’ve bit it too hard.

“Well,” Eric says. Then chuckles. Then stands up, comes closer to Daryl and puts a reassuring hand on his naked shoulder. “I… sort of liked it? That you watched,” he admits. Daryl’s confusion must be clearly visible on his face, because Eric quickly follows up with an explanation: “Humans are very complex, when it comes to sexuality. We’re generally monogamous, but as you probably noticed, that doesn’t stop us from desiring people outside of our relationships. And, well,” his tone becomes meek, like he’s sheepish. “I’ve been having some… ummm. Fantasies, involving you. Though I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one. Aaron's had his fair share as well, though he doesn't want to admit it even though it's obvious. You know, it’s kinda impossible not to have fantasies about you. You… you’ve got that, something, I don’t know what, you're just so- Well, anyway. Besides the fact that you startled me, I. Didn’t really mind that you watched.”

He sighs. “I’m bad at explaining this, sorry.”

Daryl shakes his head, indicating Eric isn't to blame for his incomprehension, though he continues frowning as he attempts to process the information. Of course, he knew that many men find him attractive for some reason. Eric and Aaron feeling desire for him is not news, either. But Daryl had no idea humans actually actively fantasized about having sex with somebody even without that somebody being present at all. He imagined the urge to do it was some sort of a biological imperative connected to the cyclical release of hormones which usually happened when around a willing partner, but the way Eric makes it sound, he’s guessing there’s nothing cyclical about it after all. 

“So… D’you wanna have sex all the time?” He asks, inquisitive, and wonders if it works the same for all humans. Because if it does... what does it mean for him? With Rick?

“Maybe not all the time, but often?” Eric replies. He squeezes the edge of the blanket with one hand. He probably doesn't smell how it makes the scent of his recent coupling with Aaron more intense in the air, but Daryl does. He won't say anything about it, though. He's intruded and made it all awkward enough.

“Humans don’t need a mating season or a mating cycle, and we tend to think about sex a lot when we aren’t actively having it. We also have this really bad habit of judging people based on their physical traits, but I suppose that’s actually leftover from when we were more animalistic than we like to think we are nowadays.”

“Then… Rick really wants to have sex with me?” Daryl asks, and smiles when he remembers how the man kept touching him all the time. Yeah. Rick probably thought about having sex with Daryl. For some reason, the idea makes Daryl feel warmer.

“You have no idea how any of this works, do you?” Eric inquires, shaking his head. He pats Daryl arm where he was holding him, and he motions to the lone chair by the small table overflowing with research papers. “Take a seat, Daryl. I’m going to explain sexuality to you. It’s gonna be awful and I’m going to hate it, so you better appreciate it.”

“I do,” Daryl promises, sitting down. 

“Good. I’m gonna want something in return, though. A favor. And you’re gonna deliver, and you’re _ not _going to tell Aaron a word about it, okay?” Eric demands.

And while Daryl doesn’t like keeping secrets, Eric is the only one he can think of who can explain everything to him, so it’s not like he has a choice. He agrees, and Eric makes a determined face, then sits down cross-legged on Aaron’s bed. He sighs, looks up at the ceiling like he's looking for inspiration there, undoubtedly regretting his choice not to go help setting up drone cameras in the Biter Tank or, whatever it was Aaron ran off to do. Finally, he begins his long and winded explanation of human mating practices.

Turns out, it's all damn complicated.


	9. Chapter 9

Daryl learns many new things that Eric claims should’ve been taught to him when he was a pup, though he is very understanding when Daryl explains that he never went to school. He’s also quite patient when explaining basic biological functions pertaining to reproduction, even if he initially stumbles over words such as _ penis _ and _ vagina, _ not to mention the embarrassment he seems to be battling as he describes the most common signs of male arousal - most of which Daryl experienced around Rick earlier today, by the way. 

Once Eric gets into the right mindset, though, that’s when Daryl’s in trouble.

“Now, sexual satisfaction in males is reached by means of ejaculation, which can be achieved by stimulation to the male sex organs - namely, the penis and the testicles,” Eric says. He’s an academic first and foremost, which means he’s used to talking to - at? - people who have the knowledge to understand his big vocabulary. Daryl thinks he might be too dumb to ever get this. How are human pups capable of comprehending this shit?

“Listen, the whole concept really isn’t that hard,” Eric announces finally, when his academic approach fails. “You grab your dick - that’s slang for the _ long hanging bit _ you so kindly labelled it as. Anyway you grab your dick, or his, whichever suits your fancy in the moment, and you stroke it until orgasm. Orgasm means ejaculation… shooting your load? Well, you’ll know it when you feel it. It’s all very simple and efficient. Anything more advanced can wait until you’re familiar enough with what your body enjoys, unless you both feel like experimenting together...”

“‘s all damn complicated,” Daryl decides with a sigh. 

Eric chuckles. “No, it’s not. It only sounds complicated,” he promises. “Now. You mentioned mood swings. Would you like me to perform a blood test to check your hormone levels? If your body works in shark-like ways, then it’d be prudent to keep an eye on how things are.”

Daryl nods, biting his lip. He doesn’t like needles and tests, they remind him of the experiments he’s pretty sure his brother is being subjected to, but he knows he can trust Eric. The last time Eric drew his blood wasn’t that bad. Didn’t hurt, and Eric only took as much blood as he absolutely required for the tests. He was even kind enough to draw blood from Aaron and Carol right afterwards, to run the same exact tests on them in order for Daryl to feel less like an experiment and more like a normal person. Even though he’s not.

They relocate to Eric’s lab space. Walking down the empty hallways is sort of an eerie experience, though Daryl should’ve been used to it by now since he always goes to the Biter Tank at night. Still, tonight, after having been stalked by Lydia as prey, he feels a shiver run down his spine when he thinks about how anything could be hiding in the nooks and corners of the Institute when it’s dark and nobody is there.

“I’m going to clean your skin with alcohol first,” Eric announces. It’s another practice he established for Daryl’s comfort: he warns about every step he’s going to perform out loud before he does it. He also uses it as a way to obtain consent. He doesn’t move forward until he sees Daryl nod or verbally confirm he’s fine with the procedure. 

“Now, I’ll be drawing blood. This might sting a little,” he says, and Daryl bites his poor abused lower lip, nodding his acknowledgement.

It does sting, but it’s nothing Daryl wouldn’t be able to handle, so he doesn’t even make a noise. He watches, vaguely fascinated, as the syringe fills with his blood. Sharks have red blood just like humans, though sharks’ is usually darker because the lower concentration of oxygen in oceanic water makes it so. Daryl’s is typical human-red and smells mostly like iron, with vague traces of other scents. Maybe like so many of his characteristics, it changes features slightly when he’s immersed in saltwater. 

“Y’all need to draw my blood underwater,” he suggests and Eric blinks, but then he hums thoughtfully.

“Yes, that makes sense. But it won’t be needed right now. You experienced the mood swings on land, in your new friend’s company. That means the potential release of hormones is not dependent on the saltwater environment,” he concludes and pulls away the syringe, then taps the tiny puncture wound with a gauze pad. “Here, hold this for a few minutes, press it into the wound. It’ll stop the bleeding.”

He moves to the desk and procures some equipment Daryl doesn’t even know the names of. He continues to narrate everything he does, completely unbothered by the fact that difficult words coupled with Eric’s calm and pleasant voice only serve to make Daryl drowsy. Eventually, Daryl dozes off in the chair.

He is woken up some unknown amount of time later by a gentle tap on the shoulder. He opens his eyes to Eric’s slightly worried smile. 

“It’s been a while since I saw you really sleep,” the man says softly. “You’re motionless when you’re asleep, you know that? You barely even breathe.”

“Sorry,” Daryl mutters. “Uhhh. Got yer results or some shit?”

“Yep,” Eric replies and turns towards the desk where he picks up a few sheets of papers. “You can see for yourself if you like, or I can refer these to you?”

“Y’know I ain’t gonna understand a single line of this crap,” Daryl says, rolling his eyes. “Jus’ say wha’cha gonna say, I’m all ears.”

Eric chuckles at his impatience, but says: “Okay, okay. Your testosterone levels are very high, just like we hypothesized. To be honest, I’ve never seen such levels in mature males. For all intents and purposes, your body is acting like you’ve only just finished going through puberty which, well, sort of matches the maturing rate of the Great White shark. What this means for you is, you’re going to have periods of heightened aggression and possibly a sort of territorial possessiveness. You will very likely experience arousal in situations not related to sexual activities. I’m pretty sure your desire to bite and be bitten is going to persist for some time.”

“Damn,” Daryl groans. 

“Yeah, it’s tough. But the good news is, even unattended, this state will eventually pass,” Eric assures. “In the meantime, as your sort-of doctor, I prescribe a healthy dose of masturbation. Without anyone present. It’s going to take the edge off and calm you down, plus it will help you learn what and how you like in bed.”

“Ya mean strokin’ the dangly bits,” Daryl asks, just to be sure.

Eric rolls his eyes, but confirms that yes, that’s exactly what he means. He also gives Daryl a medical-looking printouts from somewhere, with drawings and illustrations and labels. 

“It’s reference,” he clarifies. “Contains some instruction on how to properly stimulate your, uh, dangly bits. I’d really rather not have you exposed to porn at this time. It tends to be vastly exaggerated and not especially instructive.”

Daryl shrugs, then folds and pockets the printouts. So, what he got out of the whole lecture and examination is the knowledge that his long dangly bit is going to get hard and uncomfortable a lot, especially in Rick’s presence, and it’s normal, and he’s going to want to touch it. He still doesn’t have any idea what even is the _ point _of it.

“Jesus said I should watch porn. Said it’s educational.”

“Jesus says a lot of things,” Eric points out reasonably, “and only about a half of those things make sense. Now. About that favor I wanted to ask you that you’re in no way allowed to tell Aaron about-”

“‘s it sexual?” Daryl asks, cautious. He wouldn’t mind doing something nice of such nature for Eric, but he’s not really happy about keeping secrets from Aaron. 

“No!” Eric exclaims, appalled. “Daryl. I would never ask anything like that of you. Consent! Informed consent is important!”

Daryl shrugs. “‘s consensual if I say yes, though.”

“It’s still not _ informed _ when you’ve got no idea what it entails,” Eric mutters. “Anyway, no, it’s not sexual. It’s completely innocent, though now I’m wondering if I should even be asking you at all… You obviously won’t be much help, you don’t know anything about human courting mechanisms and-”

“Try me,” Daryl demands.

Eric looks at him with resolve in his eyes. “I want to propose to Aaron and I need help setting it up so it’s the most unforgettable, perfect proposal in the history of proposals.”

“Propose what?” Daryl asks, and makes sure to blink in a very confused way. He’s actually pretty sure he knows what it’s about, but he feels like fucking with Eric a bit in retaliation for the condescending tone just now.

“Marriage!” Eric snaps. “That’s why I’m saying you’re probably not the best person to ask… But I can’t ask Jesus, he’s a damn gossip, there’s no way he’d keep it a secret. And Carol’s going to be busy with her own upcoming nuptials, and-”

“Okay, okay, I get it, man,” Daryl says, raising his arms defensively. “Also, I’m jus’ screwin’ with ya, I know what _ propose _ means. Been watchin’ lotsa rom-com shit with Carol an’ Sophia.”

Eric blinks, like he can’t quite reconcile Daryl’s grumpy persona with the feel-good softness of watching romantic comedies with family. To be completely honest, Daryl never expect to enjoy those evenings, either. But he does. Every Saturday without fail, Carol or Sophia pick a movie and Daryl pretends to hate their choice as they all sit curled up together on the comfy sofa in Carol’s living room. Arguably, the flicks are all the same and follow the same basic formula of girl meets boy, girl wants boy, girl gets boy, but there’s something very nice about having a tradition like that even if it’s so silly. 

Daryl wonders if he’s going to be like the girls from the rom-coms now. He met Rick, he wants Rick. He’s on his way to getting Rick. Will there be a happily ever after? Does life even work that way?

“Anyway. I need you to help me come up with a plan,” Eric says, finally getting over his surprise.

“No problem,” Daryl promises. “Y’all love each other, so’s gonna be easy, right? ‘s not like he’ll gonna go sayin’ no.”

Turns out, it’s not easy at all because Eric really wants it to be perfect. He’s not satisfied with any of the scenarios Daryl comes up with based on the movies he’s seen so far, and in less than half an hour, he’s already shot down all of Daryl’s half-formed ideas.

“It has to be something tailored specifically to him!” Eric insists. “Aaron is very special to me and he deserves a special declaration of love.”

Daryl decides he’s going to have to watch more romantic comedies. For research purposes. He wonders if maybe Eric shouldn’t have hired Jesus for help instead of him, even despite the risk of the man running his mouth. Jesus seems like a guy who knows a lot about romance. He would’ve been much more useful. 

And then, Daryl realizes he has someone he could ask for advice. 

“‘m gonna talk to Rick,” he announces. At Eric’s inquisitive look, he explains, “He’s a writer, gots a lotta imagination. Plus he ain’t gonna gossip ‘cause he don’t even know who Aaron is. Will only have the info I give him so’s he can help me think.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eric agrees. Then he looks at the clock on the wall which shows ten past three. Funny. With all that’s happened tonight, Daryl thought it was even later than that. “Maybe you shouldn’t bother your Rick right now. He’s probably asleep. In fact, we all should be.”

Daryl doesn’t suppose anyone of the Institute’s scientists will be getting much sleep any time soon, what with the recent development in the Biter Tank. Actually, he’s been dying to go check up on the sharks he left in such a hurry; he’s relatively sure they mating process will go without a hitch, but there’s always the possibility that Lydia will reject Henry. That wouldn’t end well. One of them would end up torn apart. 

“Let’s see how the others are dealing with the crisis,” Eric suggests, apparently having spontaneously developed the ability to read Daryl’s mind.

They go. 

There are limited ways in which sharks can be observed in a tank as big as the Biter Tank. It’s theoretically possible to have cameras installed inside, but the high tech cameras that would be required are currently outside of the budget - though the Institute is working on it. There are four cameras inside, recording in infrared because that’s the most surefire way to check up on the inhabitants. Apparently, they’ve been used for the last couple of hours to monitor the part of the aquarium Henry and Lydia are currently in, chasing and circling each other. There must be nothing alarming going on that would indicate Lydia is rejecting her potential mate; if there was, Daryl knows there are some safety measures in place which would be used to try and separate the sharks so that both would survive the incident.

Of course, the infrared recording is not nearly enough to observe a mating ritual which everybody really wants to document really well, as a scientific breakthrough that it is.

For that purpose, there was a pool among the staff to purchase a few remote-controlled deepwater drones mounted with cameras that would record clear images in the oceanic conditions. Daryl even signed away his paychecks from the last three months to help, after asking Carol if she was fine with it. He doesn’t have any need for money anyway, so he sees no point accumulating it if it can be used for something important by the Institute. 

When Eric and Daryl arrive at the correct feeding pool, they find a whole lot of people already there. Aaron, of course, is hovering around the technicians who are preparing the drones for deployment. Jesus and a few other undergrads are accompanying Professor King who looks more excited than Sophia before Christmas. There’s Carol, sleepy and nursing a giant mug of what Daryl can smell to be strong black coffee. A few other faces Daryl knows: lab technician called Rosita, Tara Chambler the architect whose ingenuity probably saved Daryl’s life, and Denise Cloyd who works in the infirmary and is incredibly scared of sharks.

Eric goes to his boyfriend to make sure he doesn’t terrorize the technicians, and Daryl is approached by Carol.

“Heard you had quite an adventure today,” the woman says with a mischievous glint in her eye. She reaches into a pocket in her sweatpants and pulls out a few pieces of candy. She hands them to Daryl. They’re chocolate. He loves chocolate. He pops the candies into his mouth all at once, making a soft happy noise at the sweetness melting on his tongue.

He wonders if Rick likes chocolate. 

“Was this you?” Carol asks, motioning towards the whole gathering with her head.

Daryl nods, feeling somewhat sheepish. “Got hormonal, Lydia picked up on it, made _ her _hormonal. So’s matin’ season now. Eric explained shit to me.”

“I hope he didn’t turn you into a pervert,” Carol jokes. 

“What? No,” Daryl scoffs. “Said I shouldn’t be watchin’ porn. ‘cause it’s crap. Even though Jesus said-”

“Don’t you mind what Jesus said about it,” Carol advises quickly. “That boy has trouble written all across his face. Though… I was certain he would’ve ended up reeling you in, eventually…”

Daryl frowns at that. “Wha’cha mean?”

“He’s been all over you since the beginning,” Carol explains. She chuckles when Daryl blinks, confused. “How didn’t you notice? He was following you around like a duckling. He kept accidentally bumping into you. He gave you his phone number on a napkin, with a heart and everything. Come on, he’s been making you food for the last month if not longer.”

“Two months,” Daryl corrects, then looks towards Jesus, considering. “‘s that courtin’ behavior? Givin’ phone numbers, makin’ food an’ shit?”

“Yes, Daryl,” Carol confirms, sounding somewhat exasperated. “It’s definitely courting behavior. Why did you think Jesus was so eager to see you naked earlier today? Believe me, it’s no scientific interest on his part, that’s for sure.”

But Daryl doesn’t pay any mind to that anymore. “D’ya think Rick likes chocolate?” He asks, wondering if the world wide web has any useful information on making candy. Would candy be considered a good courting gift? Would Rick appreciate it? Maybe like it enough to want to touch Daryl’s dangly bits? 

Just the thought of it makes him blush and renders his pants too tight. 

Carol doesn’t get the chance to answer the question, though, because the technicians announce that the drones are ready for launch. They’re small things, with the cameras mounted they are approximately the size of Daryl’s fist. When turned on, they produce the same familiar energetic field to ward off any curious biters; it would be a shame if such expensive equipment got swallowed by one of the objects it’s supposed to research and the only thing it would record would be the course of a Great White shark’s digestive track.

Apparently, everyone decides the occasion calls for a speech and, because of his unofficial designation as the Institute’s speaker, Aaron gets pushed into doing it. For once, he doesn’t seem to completely hate it; his face is all but split in half in the largest grin Daryl’s ever seen, and there are red patches indicating excitement on his cheeks, and his scent is the happiest Daryl thinks he’s smelled him since they met.

He says, awkward at first and growing bolder as he speaks to his equally overjoyed audience: “The Great White sharks have been on this Earth since long before the concept of time was forged. They’ve roamed the oceans all over the world, they outlasted the biggest, meanest predators to eventually become the apex predator in their environment. Until meeting man, the Great White was the undisputed king of the seas. That changed, however, and over the centuries with our irresponsible actions, we drove them to the state of vulnerability they exist in nowadays. With their reproduction rates too low to make up for specimens lost each year, Great White sharks are on the way towards extinction. The scientific world knows what a disaster it would be, but up until now, we didn’t have the means or the understanding required to perpetuate the rise of a higher population. We didn’t know where, when and how the sharks mate, and because of that, we didn’t know how to ensure they had the perfect environment to do so. That state ends today. With the deployment of these cameras, we at the Alexandria Institute are on our way to the most significant breakthrough in the history of studies conducted on the white shark. For the first time in history, we will observe and document the entire mating cycle of the two Great Whites living in captivity in Alexandria Institute. Ladies and gentlemen… This is our moment!”

As soon as he finishes, Professor King gives the signal and the drones are released through the feeding pool. 

“We’re going to have some biter babies,” Carol says, grinning as she squeezes Daryl’s arm. Daryl nods, forces down his immense urge to smile back. It’s happening. It’s not exactly going according to plan, it’s not really how it was intended to be invoked, but it doesn’t matter what worked as long as something did. Henry and Lydia are going to mate, and their coupling is going to help save sharks all over the world.

And Daryl helped it happen. 

“‘m gonna be an uncle,” he says giddily.

What a long, wonderful night this has been!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss Rick. Guess Daryl does too. He's going to realize it very soon, and his dangling bits are going to bear the brunt of it... in the next chapter :>


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I got delayed with the update again.  
Also, this chapter is a little shorter than most, but I had to cut it where it is cut. Hopefully the next one will be both longer and up sooner.

Because there are a few hours left before Daryl is needed for his daily duties, he decides now is a great time to explore the whole _ touching of dangly bits _ business Eric suggested he try. He still finds the concept somewhat confusing because he’s not sure how it’s going to be any different than holding his - penis - while pissing. He certainly never felt much in the way of arousal while pissing. When he asked earlier, Eric said that it’s very different because intent apparently matters, too. 

“Try thinking about your man,” he suggested. Then, when Daryl did, he added, “Think what it feels like to be in his presence. When he looks at you, when he smiles at you. When he kisses you…” He trailed off, all dreamy-like, and Daryl realized Eric wasn’t really picturing Rick anymore - if he ever really was.

But the piece of advice doesn’t seem useless regardless of whose kisses Eric was thinking about. Daryl is actually rather glad his friend wasn’t really thinking about kissing Rick. He’s very jealous about Rick. Even thoughts about Rick should only belong to him. Because they’re dating, which means they’re exclusively for each other.

Or something.

“Let’s do this,” Daryl mutters to himself, settling down on his narrow bed. He’s changed into a loose pair of sweatpants, ditching the shirt whatsoever since he reckons he won’t need it. Even the sweats seem unnecessary, so after a second of consideration, he gets rid of them too. That leaves him sprawled completely naked on top of the sheets. 

It’s more awkward than he expected.

He looks down at himself, taking a moment to examine his body. He actually never did this before. He was never curious how and why parts of him worked. It didn’t make him wonder when bits and pieces started changing when he was younger, when hair started growing in places other than his head. He took it as something natural. Merle had hair in places, meant that Daryl would have too. He stares at his chest now, at the light fuzz covering it. Trails a hand through the hair, then stops at the resulting ticklish sensation. A bit lower, though, on his abdomen, there is a thicker, darker trail of hair, coarse and curling, and running his fingers through there is different. Strange. Makes Daryl feel… something. Thirst. He’s thirsty, but even he can tell it’s not water he wants. 

_ Rick, _ he thinks, taking Eric’s advice. Immediately, his mind fills with images of the man he met only today… well, technically, it was yesterday. Still, for how short their acquaintance has been so far, it’s astounding how clearly Daryl can picture the wavy dark hair at the nape of the man’s neck, the exact swell of his lips, the precise way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. His voice, too, Daryl can recall the timbre and the warm tone, and the way Rick’s vowels became a bit more drawled when he had a bit of alcohol to drink.

_ I genuinely like you, _ Rick had said.

And, _ You’re cute. _

And then, _ Call me. _

So, should he call? It’s so early. Or late, depending on how he looks at it. Rick is probably still asleep. He should be. Humans need their regular sleeping patterns to be healthy and Daryl really wants Rick to be healthy, so he probably shouldn’t call. But Rick said he wanted Daryl to call him. What if Daryl texted him instead? Then Rick can just read the text as soon as he wakes up. Unless he’s got a loud incoming message alert set on his phone. Daryl’s is silent, Sophia helped him set it after the sudden noise interrupted their movie-watching one time too many, but what if Rick’s isn’t? 

… what if in the overall excitement of the night, Daryl’s lost Rick’s business card?

He immediately gets out of bed and finds his jeans from earlier. He rummages through the pockets and curses silently at his own dumbness; the card doesn’t seem to be there. Groaning, Daryl sits heavily on the floor, mood completely soured - and then he notices a small bright rectangle on the floor just under the chair. He picks it up, sees the familiar blurry script and almost sighs out loud in relief. He retrieves his glasses from the bedside table and puts them on to read the number and register it in his phone. 

Once he’s done, he returns to the bed and assumes his previous position on top of the sheets. He dislikes the glasses sitting awkwardly on his face - even though both Carol and Sophia always insist the spectacles make him look distinguished and charming, as if he’d want to be either - but they’re necessary if he wants to text Rick. Which leads him back to his original conundrum: should he text? 

“Fuck it,” he whispers under his breath and opens a new text message. He hesitates: what is he even supposed to start with? But then he settles for the simplest solution and types:

_ Hi _

He deliberates on what to add to the greeting. Should he introduce himself or is that too much? When Jesus got his number, his first text to Daryl was a cheerful _ Hi shark lover, let’s hang out sometime, xoxo - Jesus _and a broken image link. Actually, now that he knows Jesus was trying to court him, Daryl can sort of see how the message was probably meant as an initiation of the courting rituals. Whatever the “xoxo” means. 

Should he write “xoxo” to Rick, too?

He spends entirely too much time considering his options, but in the end, he sends the text with only the single word of greeting. He then wastes another ten minutes staring at the screen, two hopes battling for dominance in his mind: one, that Rick isn’t asleep and will write him back immediately and the other, that Rick is asleep and won’t be able to reply until well in the daylight hours. He finally decides the latter must be true and moves to put the phone away when it vibrates with a new text message.

Adjusting the glasses on his nose, Daryl reads the text.

It only says, _ Hi, stranger, _and has the emoticon for the wink face. Daryl knows what emoticons are because Sophia painstakingly explained these things to him. She thought Daryl should know. Daryl thinks it’s not very important, but he’d never disappoint Sophia.

_ Aint a stranger_, he types back and taps _ send _ before he thinks too much about it. 

Rick replies quickly this time: _ Didn’t think you were, darling. What’s up? Why aren’t you asleep? Sharks keeping you busy? _

Darling. Rick called him darling. Daryl licks his lips, trying to imagine Rick’s low voice calling him that in person. It makes him warm all over and he realizes, now that he’s aware of his body reacting, that his long dangling bit seems much less dangling than earlier. Eric said it’s supposed to happen when he is aroused, so Daryl isn’t alarmed, just a bit confused because he didn’t think arousal would occur so easily, just from imagining Rick saying something. He blinks and decides to try touching, since that was the point of this exercise to begin with, before he got sidetracked. 

It’s… nice, Daryl supposes. He sort of just wraps his fingers around the shaft and holds it, not much unlike when he needs to piss, but it feels different. More sensitive, or maybe in a different way. He moves his hand up and then down, then again, pulling slightly at the flesh, and suddenly an unexpected spark of pleasure goes through him, making him shudder. 

“Oh,” he says softly and bites down on his lower lip. The phone vibrates again and Daryl looks at the screen to see a new message from Rick.

_ Fell asleep on me? Sleep well, gorgeous. _

“Rick,” Daryl whispers and likes how it sounds in the relative darkness of his room. He also likes how the length in his hand twitches at the idea of Rick calling him gorgeous out loud. Even though he’s not, it doesn’t seem to matter right now because Daryl’s body is reacting in a different manner than usual. He tightens his fingers around the shaft, moves them up and down again, and he hastily types out a reply to Rick’s message:

_ Nt slepin thrnking of you _

-which might not be his best show of eloquence, but he’s improvising, typing one-handed, and it’s not that easy to focus on the phone when there are wonderful things happening between his legs. Like. Why didn’t he know? How could he not have known this? If this feeling, this good, _ great _ feeling, is just the beginning, then Daryl isn’t sure he’s ready for anything more because. How will he handle it when it’s Rick’s hand touching him there?

“Fuck,” he whimpers, and his hips move awkwardly upwards, chasing the pull of his hand, and it’s uncoordinated and strange. He almost stops, but then temptation of more pleasure wins out and Daryl tries to put a slow and steady rhythm to the up-and-down movement of his hand. That makes it even better and he has to bite his lip hard to stop new noises from getting out. The phone vibrates once again and Daryl almost drops it; with the corner of his eye he can make out the message, _ Just thinking?, _and he groans because he’s not sure what to reply, if he even can reply, what does he say-

His thumb flicks over the tip of his shaft which is wet for some reason; Daryl doesn’t panic because Eric said sex is always wet and messy, so he supposes this is okay. Anyway, the sensation when the dampness transfers to his hand, then spreads all over the length it’s working, is interesting. Feels even better than before. Smoother, but also a little bit rougher because the skin on Daryl’s fingers reacts to the wetness by showing tooth. Curiously, the dangling bits don’t seem to behave the same way; if Daryl rubbed his wet hands together, the sensation would be like rubbing them each against a dusty concrete wall or something. Rubbing his length isn’t like that. It’s hard in his hand, but silky and nice, and it slides easily into the tight fit of Daryl’s fist. 

The pleasure builds up, Daryl notes absent-mindedly, it doesn’t remain on the same low-pressure level for long. Something inside of Daryl, in his abdomen, grows layers and makes him move his hand faster, tighten his fingers a bit more, bite his lip a little harder. He imagines Rick being there, Rick touching him like this, firm and experienced, Rick biting his lower lip in a way that’s too damn gentle because of his blunt human teeth. Rick holding him down with his strong arms, making Daryl submit to him without the need for a dominating bite; but he would bite, Daryl would ask him to, and Rick would bite him, somewhere it would be visible, somewhere it would be _ obvious _, Rick would- Rick would-

A sound, almost like a moan, tears its way out of Daryl’s throat just as his whole body sort of draws into itself and explodes in a blindingly-white moment of pure bliss. His hand stills in its movement, his eyes fall shut and he forgets to breathe for a moment until he inhales, loud and shaky, and moves his hand away from his softening length. He registers a new scent just as he notices his fingers, as well as his chest and abdomen are damp, splattered with a thick, rapidly cooling liquid. He lifts the hand to examine the substance, spreads it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s sticky and has a sharp smell he doesn’t know what to compare to. Not unpleasant, just sort of new. It makes him curious, so he licks some of it off his fingers and, well. It’s salty, bitter and sour all at the same time, like… like… like something, and it’s not bad, it’s actually kind of. Good. 

Confused as to why his body would produce something like this, Daryl wonders if it would be okay to lick his hand clean. He wants to, but. What if it’s not something that is done? Eric never mentioned this. He said it’s messy, but he didn’t say the mess could be like, edible. He would’ve mentioned it, wouldn’t he? So it’s probably not something that Daryl should be doing… well, at least not with Rick. Fuck, but he’d love to taste Rick. Would Rick’s liquid taste the same? Or better? Probably better. 

Eventually, Daryl wipes his hand on the bed sheets - he’s been meaning to change them for days, anyway - and he picks up the phone he dropped to the floor sometime during his, uh, activities. There’s a new message from Rick.

It says, _ Still thinking about me? _

Smiling, feeling a strange, sated sort of relaxed, Daryl types back, _ Nah just finished. _

He waits a moment for a reply, idly scratching at a dried spot of the strange liquid on his stomach. It’s a little itchy, and there are a few hairs caught in it so it stings when Daryl scrapes at it. He might need to shower to clean himself. He’d rather go swim in the ocean, but Carol says the ocean doesn’t work as well as a hot shower and a bit of a cleaning product. She always buys him one that serves as body wash and shampoo. It’s not so bad, and it lasts him a long time. Since he doesn’t sweat as much as normal humans do, and his sweat doesn’t have the same sharp smell as theirs, he can go longer without bathing. Even Carol says it’s okay. 

Still. He might shower now. Sometimes, hot water is enjoyable. It relaxes muscles and-

The phone vibrates, and Daryl’s train of thought is effectively derailed with Rick’s message: 

_ God, Daryl, have you any idea what you’re doing to me? Need to see you soon. _

Yes, Daryl wants to see him too. He asks, _ Tomorrow? _ \- and he means _ later today_, but if Rick reads this incorrectly, it doesn’t matter because Daryl can wait. He can be patient. He thinks he still has a lot of exploring to do, anyhow. Later. After he takes a nap.

This time, Rick’s answer comes quick. _ I’ll come find you at the Institute as soon as it opens. Is that okay? _

Daryl smiles wide and happy, putting his unsettling full set of teeth on display for the empty room. He was worried for a brief moment Rick would’ve wanted to meet in some bar again. This is much better. He writes,_ Yeah.__ Bring fried chicken thats fancy date shit yeah? _

Obviously, Daryl’s never been on a fancy date himself. But he’s pretty sure he got it right with the fried chicken. It’s what Merle said. He went on many dates, with many different people, so he obviously knew what it was all about. If there was ever one thing Daryl regretted about not wanting to date people, it was the fried chicken, because he imagines it must taste amazing. Carol claims he could just buy fried chicken for himself, but despite his general disregard for human rules and traditions, Daryl never wanted to break this one. Yeah, so he could just go to a restaurant and order fried chicken. Everyone could. But it’s not the same, surely, eating fried chicken all alone. It must be special when it’s shared by two people on a fancy date. It’s Fancy Date Chicken.

And apparently Rick agrees with him, because he quickly replies with, _ Sure. I’ll bring fried chicken. Now get some sleep, darling. I’ll be having some damn nice dreams too, thanks to you. _

Daryl thinks that maybe he’s never smiled so much in such a short amount of time, before. He sends a quick _ Good night _, then puts the phone under the pillow and looks up at the ceiling, grinning like an idiot. His mouth waters both at the thought of the long-awaited fried chicken and the soft-yet-overwhelming touches Rick is likely to bestow upon him again, and there’s a sort of tingling sensation in his abdomen. Daryl licks his lips, wondering if maybe he could… explore, a little, again, before he has to go take a shower. It would be a waste of water if he became dirty right after just getting clean, wouldn’t it? And he really doesn’t want to waste water. So he can do it one more time now. It’s a decision made purely for the sake of the environment. It’s not because his normally limp, hanging long bit is hardening and going upright again. It’s also not because he wants more of the taste of that thick liquid his body can produce. Or maybe it’s because of all of it. 

Well, whatever the reason, Daryl quickly decides it’s alright to succumb to the temptation. Without further deliberation, he goes right back to exploring - and he makes some really exciting discoveries along the way. He can’t wait to show Rick what he likes. He can’t wait to learn what Rick likes, too.

And he definitely can’t wait to share some fried chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If that wasn't the most difficult masturbation scene I've ever written, I don't know what is. Seriously. How do you write sex scenes about someone who's got just the very basic idea about what sex even is. I imagine it's going to kill me even more when it gets to actual sex with Rick... UGH at least there's a date coming up. With fried chicken. And then maybe finally some plot will happen?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who missed the sharks? I did!  
Here's a new chapter, now with 200% more teeth~

Daryl Dixon might be very green when it comes to sexual matters, but even he isn’t completely oblivious to somebody attempting to seduce him. 

He thinks so.

Then an inner voice which sounds suspiciously like Carol reminds him:  _ What about Jesus?  _ \- and he’s forced to acquiesce that okay, he usually is completely oblivious to seduction attempts directed at him… unless the seducer is Rick Grimes. 

Because Rick’s trying to seduce him, that’s for certain. There’s no other reason he’d be wearing a shirt like that, with three top buttons popped open. He’s got a hairy chest and if that’s not showing off his masculinity, Daryl doesn’t know what it is. Well, other than a damn distraction, for sure. It’s hard to keep his eyes on the man’s face as he talks when Daryl’s gaze keeps being drawn to the dark fuzz peeking out from the neckline of Rick’s shirt. 

It’s the first thing Daryl notices when he meets Rick in the reception area in the Institute: the tan shirt which reveals a lot of chest. Only later does he register that Rick’s brought a giant bucket of fried chicken. 

Yes, he actually managed to somehow miss the presence of food. 

Because Rick’s seduction attempt is working exceptionally well, it seems. Daryl can feel the bits of his body he experimented with earlier become hard again, and his face is warm with a blush, and his fingers twitch for some reason. He licks his lips. It’s a nervous reaction, not a mating response, though judging by the way Rick’s eyes darken when he follows the flicker of Daryl’s tongue, it must’ve been interpreted as the latter. 

“You look nice,” Rick greets him with a smile that seems slightly dazed. 

Daryl doesn’t really look nice, he doesn't think. He hasn’t slept a wink last night, so his eyes are puffy and have dark circles underneath. His hair refused to be tamed after he showered, so it looks wilder than normal. None of his nicer clothes were clean, so he dressed in jeans which only barely fit anymore, and a sleeveless top with the Institute logo. It used to have sleeves, but they were too tight and Daryl’s arms didn’t fit, so he ripped them off. He did that to many of his shirts. Carol said it would’ve been better to buy new ones, but Daryl doesn’t understand why wasting money would ever be preferable if there’s another solution. 

He sort of wishes he listened to her, now. In comparison to Rick, he probably looks like a slob.

But Rick says he looks nice, and he doesn’t smell like he’s lying. He smells like… like he’s intrigued, like he wants to get to know Daryl better, closer. And be brought the fancy chicken. 

Daryl’s stomach growls.

“Ummm,” he says.

Rick chuckles. “So where can we go to eat in peace? I don’t think the receptionist likes me very much.”

Daryl looks over at Jessie Anderson and shrugs. “She don’t like morning shifts,” he explains simply. “But yeah. I thought ya might wanna go to the beach. Institute gots a big stretch of beach for our own use. No trespassers an’ shit.”

“Lead the way,” Rick decides. “Although if I get arrested for trespassing, I’m blaming you.”

Daryl shrugs. “I’ll post yer bail,” he promises, because at least thanks to growing up with Merle, he knows what to expect when somebody is arrested. He’s rewarded with Rick’s laughter, which is the best prize he can imagine save for, maybe, actually getting to bite or be bitten by him. Even though he didn’t mean it as a joke, he doesn’t mind that it was taken as such. Rick takes his hand and walks with him, and Daryl is immediately engrossed in the sensation of the man’s fingers against his skin. He imagines them on other parts of him - more  _ sensitive  _ parts of him, mainly - and a shiver runs down his spine. 

Oh, he’s going to imagine plenty tonight.

When they reach the wide stretch of the beach with a small motorboat dock and a long pier, Daryl leads Rick to the picnic area Carol set up for when the staff want to have a nice lunch break overlooking the ocean, or an outdoor party. There’s a long table, a bench, chairs with cushions and even a pit to make bonfires. 

Rick puts the chicken bucket on the table and sits on the bench, then motions for Daryl to take a seat next to him. Daryl does, and he’s incredibly tempted to wrap himself around the man like some land octopus or, well, whatever; he settles for pressing his leg against Rick’s and letting him hold his hand, for the time being. 

And then he realizes he’s got a problem.

With all of his fancy chicken date ideas, he forgot about a very important thing: he can’t exactly eat in front of Rick. It’s not that he’s shy or anything, none of that. His problem is, with the teeth he has, he sort of doesn’t look very human when he eats. In fact, it’s pretty much impossible to hide what he is when he eats. 

There he was, worried about an errant smile that might give him away, biting his lips at the wrong moment. He didn’t think about the damn chicken, at least not from the angle he should have. That’s so dumb. 

“Let’s eat while it’s hot,” Rick suggests and picks a strip of breaded chicken breast from the bucket. Unaware of Daryl’s inner turmoil, he offers the piece of meat to him, lifting it almost to his lips like he’s expecting Daryl to open up and take the bite straight from his hand. A bit like he’s feeding an animal, but on the other hand, Daryl saw couples do that to one another in some of the rom-coms he watched with Sophia and Carol, so he’s not offended. 

Just terrified.

Never before in his life he’d had to pretend to eat like a human. He doesn’t even think he can do that. He doesn’t have molars, his entire jaw is filled with something vaguely reminiscent of incisors, but more fang-shaped and with serrated edges. Carol told him that with sharks, it’s as though even their teeth have teeth, and that’s exactly what Daryl’s teeth are like. And he’s got two rows of them. While he can retract the second, inner row at will in almost any situation, it still pops out on instinct whenever food is involved. 

Some animals salivate when they smell something delicious. Many humans work the same way. Daryl basically grows additional teeth instead. 

Because the possibility of him biting off a hand or at least a few fingers in the best case scenario is decidedly not a romantic one, Daryl does not open his mouth to let Rick feed him. He plucks the piece of meat out of Rick’s grasp with his fingers and turns his head away as he pushes it past his lips. He hides his chewing behind an open hand, trying to be as natural about it as possible. 

It’s damn delicious, fuck. Greasy and spicy, and the meat is soft while the coating is crispy and crunchy and. Amazing. He can see what Merle meant about it being fancy date food. 

Rick looks at him enjoying the chicken and shakes his head with a smile. “You’re so weird,” he says, but the sentiment doesn’t sound like an accusation. In fact, there’s indubitable fondness in Rick’s voice, and Daryl kind of wants to snuggle up to him and nuzzle Rick’s neck with his nose. 

“Yer weird,” he replies in a teasing tone. “Eat,” he demands. 

Rick laughs, and does as he’s told. Daryl eats, too, covering his mouth as he chews, and it’s incredible, but it probably works because Rick doesn’t even mention a disproportionate number of teeth. Actually, neither of them talks about anything while they’re sharing the meal; it’s nice, Daryl thinks. It lets him enjoy the sharp taste and concentrate on hiding his inhuman eating manner, and anyway, being silent with Rick is almost as pleasant as listening to him talk. Like this, it’s possible to simply listen to how the man’s heartbeat harmonizes with the thrum of the waves in the ocean, how relaxed his breathing pattern becomes in Daryl’s company. It relaxes Daryl in turn, the smell of the ocean, the satiated feeling in his stomach, the warmth of Rick next to him. He could stay like this. It almost feels better than swimming.

When the bucket is finally empty, Daryl gives in to the urge and leans slightly into Rick’s personal space. He rests his head on the man’s shoulder and lets out a happy hum. “‘s been an eventful night,” he says, closing his eyes.

Rick chuckles. “I bet, with what you texted me,” he teases. 

Daryl doesn’t know what he means, but it’s definitely not what  _ he  _ means because he didn’t text Rick about the mating. He’s not sure if he should tell him, if it’s not too soon; Carol would warn him against jinxing it or some shit. Then again, Daryl doesn’t believe in superstitions because they don’t ever apply to sharks. And sharks don’t believe in anything, anyway. 

So he says, “Nah, meant that Henry an’ Lydia will be parents.”

Rick frowns, likely because of the barely-familiar names sounding foreign to him right now, and then he obviously remembers. “The sharks,” he says, and Daryl nods. “Your Great Whites are a mated? Ain’t that very rare?”

“Never happened in captivity before,” Daryl replies proudly. “But last night, Henry an’ Lydia started the courtship, so we’s expectin’ some toothy babies in a year or so.”

“That’s amazing,” Rick says, and there’s genuine admiration in his voice. He’s not just faking it for Daryl’s sake. “A bit terrifying,” he admits sheepishly, “but amazing nonetheless. I guess the scientists are all over the place?”

Daryl chuckles. “Don’t think Aaron slept a wink. Professor King’s probably still glued to the monitor. Jesus might be drinkin’ to celebrate, dunno, he’s weird,” he says. “Thing is, everyone’s real excited. ‘s all thanks to,” he pauses. He almost let slip that it’s thanks to Rick, and that would be hard to explain. He can’t tell the man that the sharks are mating because Daryl’s hormones decided to go crazy from  _ his scent.  _ That’s not something a normal person would understand. It’s not even something Daryl understands, most of the time.

“Thanks to what?” Rick asks. He’s too sharp, too attentive. Daryl’s not used to his words being so closely listened to, other than during the group tours. It’s easier when people ignore him.

“Thanks to everyone’s hard work,” Daryl mutters. It’s not a lie. Everybody in the Institute worked their asses off to get the sharks to like each other and to eventually, possibly, see them mate. The fact that what they tried to make happen, happened on its own through a happy accident… well, it’s not important. “‘specially Aaron and the Prof. They’s real dedicated, y’know. Love sharks like nobody else.”

“I think they might have some mighty competition in you,” Rick says, that teasing lilt in his voice again. A hint of laughter, that warm, fond amusement Daryl loves to hear, to be the cause of. It this normal? To become so infatuated with someone after but a couple of days knowing them? Is this how humans always fall in love?

Or is this all because of Daryl’s heightened hormone levels?...

“Wanna kiss ya,” he murmurs, looking somewhat shyly up at Rick. His understanding of romance might be limited to the movies he’s seen so far with the girls; in those movies, everything always goes fast because the plot needs to go from first meetings through falling in love, drama and heartbreak to a happy ending within an hour and a half tops. In real life, he’s sure it’s not supposed to be that fast. Carol and Professor King needed like, months to start dating, then actual  _ years _ to finally be ready for their  _ happily ever after,  _ and Daryl thinks this is closer to what is the norm for human relationships. 

But he also thinks it feels right, to want Rick like that, and if it feels right then surely it can’t be a bad thing. 

Rick looks at him, his blue eyes filled with the intensity Daryl remembers from when the man was watching him in the aquarium. It makes him uncomfortable - no. No, he realizes, it’s not discomfort at all that he’s experiencing. Now that he knows what it feels like, he can recognize the arousal stirring in his abdomen, the strange, somewhat fluttery sensation which doesn’t go away when he shifts or licks his lips. Rick’s scent changes slightly, becomes sharper, sweeter as his pupils dilate and his hands twitch. 

“I’m not stopping you,” the man says softly, his voice barely above a whisper, almost inaudible as the waves hit the shore.  _ Almost.  _

And Daryl leans in, slow but sure as fuck, and presses his lips against Rick’s in a chaste, close-mouthed kiss. It’s awkward, as awkward as their first hurried kiss back then; Daryl forgets to close his eyes and his angle is all wrong, so he bumps his nose on Rick’s cheekbone and probably squishes Rick’s nose at the same time. But Rick doesn’t seem to mind his lack of experience; he cups Daryl’s jaw gently with his warm hand and directs him, shows him how to tilt his head so their lips align better. Daryl’s eyelids fall closed on their own accord, and he sighs noiselessly into the kiss, a silent exhale which parts his lips - and Rick uses the opportunity to lick at the seam between Daryl’s lips, to press his tongue past them, to taste him, and-

Daryl pushes him away. 

“Sorry,” Rick mutters, his cheeks flushed and his expression honestly apologetic. “Got carried away, I- I promised I wouldn’t rush you and now…”

“Just,” Daryl says and licks his lips, shivering at the ghost of Rick’s taste on his tongue. “Got… got real bad cavities,” he lies, “an’. ‘s sorta. Disgustin’, kay? ‘s gonna be better soon, I’m like. Gettin’ appointments for that. But ain’t done yet. So‘s not yer fault, just. The cavities, man. ‘s embarrassin’.”

As far as excuses go, it’s terrible, but Daryl’s had no time - no presence of mind - to think of something better. It draws unnecessary attention to the fact there’s something wrong with his teeth, but at least cavities sound plausible. For a human, that is. Like with almost all shark species known to science, it’s impossible for Daryl to have a cavity. His teeth are covered with fluoride and besides, their enamel contains high amounts of a chemical called fluorapatite. It’s resistant to acids produced by various bacteria. So yeah, he doesn’t get cavities. 

But Rick doesn’t need to know that.

“I see,” Rick says, and nods. He brushes his knuckles over Daryl’s jaw, then plants a little peck in the corner of his mouth. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, darlin’. Cavities happen to everyone,” he shrugs. “But don’t worry. You state the rules, I follow your lead, okay?”

“Mmm,” Daryl hums. 

He’s already wondering how to hide his teeth from Rick to be able to kiss him  _ that way.  _ Do they make prosthetics that could be somehow put over his real teeth? Pulling teeth out wouldn’t work, obviously, new ones would just pop into their place from the inner rows hidden from sight. His jaws are built in a very interesting way, according to Eric who had them x-rayed, with a lot more teeth than should really fit anywhere in there. The first row, the one he can’t retract, is separated by a layer of tightly-knit tendons from another row of teeth underneath: they immediately replace those he loses, because just like sharks, Daryl loses his teeth a lot. And the second, retractable row serves as sort of a backup when the lower front row teeth haven’t grown yet to replace those lost from the upper row. Then there’s also a third and fourth row of so-called tooth buds, behind the retractable row; they don’t grow to the surface unless the teeth in the second row need to be replaced. 

It’s like this conveyor belt in a factory, but with teeth.

Yeah, so how does he hide  _ that? _

Shaking his head, he decides to change the subject for now. He asks, “Wanna walk down the shoreline with me? Can show ya some nice shit.” 

Rick agrees, so they take off their shoes and socks which they leave by the picnic table, and Daryl takes Rick by the hand. The stretch of beach that belongs to the Institute isn’t that long, but it has a fence which can be easily scaled from the inside and not so much from the outside; Daryl helps Rick to the other side which gives him a great opportunity to touch Rick’s butt without being accused of any sort of perversion. He easily jumps over the fence on his own, too, and lands gracefully on the sand next to where the other man is standing.

“That was impressive,” Rick comments.

Daryl smirks. “Am sorta strong,” he admits, proud of himself and happy with the praise. “C’mon, I wanna show ya stuff,” he adds, and leads the way.

They walk for over an hour, holding hands and talking about stuff - though it’s mostly Rick talking and Daryl listening. They don’t meet many people along the way because it’s still not the season for beach-goers yet, so there’s nobody there to judge or look twice at their joined hands and the tiny kisses they steal of each other for laughs. Finally, they reach a cove hidden from view of the town by a stretch of great pine trees. There’s a small wooden shack there, overseeing the ocean, and a short pier with a rowboat tied to it. Daryl smiles and shows Rick to the shack.

The man hesitates. “Won’t the owner throw us out?” 

“Ain’t,” Daryl promises. “‘s mine. Built in m’self,” he explains when Rick continues to seem puzzled. 

“Seriously? Wow. This place is beautiful,” Rick says. “You amaze more with each passing minute. How come nobody’s snatched you up yet? How come somebody like you is still single? I mean, obviously I’m not complaining-”

“Told ya, though,” Daryl reminds him. “Never been interested in anyone, ‘fore ya came along.”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees softly, thoughtfully. “Yeah, you told me. It’s just difficult to believe.”

In silence then, the two of them enter the shack. It’s not much, Daryl doesn’t really use it a lot, too comfortable in his apartment in the Institute with the sharks and everything so close. Carol got him most of the stuff that’s in there which he didn’t make himself. There’s a low wooden table and a couch which has seen better days, and a fireplace that serves as the place’s only heat source in the winter, and upstairs there’s a bedroom with basically only a big bed in it. It’s got basic plumbing, Carol organized that, so there’s an actual bathroom, though to be honest, Daryl didn’t have much need for it. Carol insisted, said that actual human beings prefer to use the bathroom instead of taking care of those sorts of physiological needs outside. 

Daryl’s not a barbarian, he knew that. What he meant was that he’s perfectly capable of controlling his metabolism to the highest extent and he only needs the bathroom when he decides it’s  _ fine  _ to need the bathroom. 

Well, now he’s glad Carol got her way because Rick looks even more impressed when he surveys the inside of the small cabin. 

“This is better than the place I’m renting,” he says with a wide grin. “So cozy and nice. Damn, Daryl. You could make a fortune building places like this for rich folks.”

“Ain’t need a fortune,” Daryl replies. “Just wanted somewhere away from people, ‘case I needed to think. Happened once or twice.”

“How are you even real?” Rick asks and laughs when Daryl rolls his eyes. 

They spend some time there, fishing from the pier using the rods Daryl made a few months ago. They don’t really catch anything save for a few plastic bags, but even that doesn’t really sour Daryl’s mood too much. He hates the pollution, of course he does, but when there’s Rick sitting next to him, joyful and carefree, and a little bit handsy - it’s hard to be agitated. 

“I had a great time,” Rick tells him later, after they walked back to the Institute which they had to circle around in order to retrieve their shoes. They haven’t got any fish, but Daryl found a pretty nice shell which he gave Rick, and for which Rick paid back with a series of very sweet kisses on his lips. 

“Me too,” he murmurs. “‘s it always like this? Datin’?”

“I guess,” Rick says, shrugging somewhat helplessly. “I haven’t dated anyone since high school. My wife… my almost ex-wife, I mean, she’s not much for going out unless it’s to an expensive restaurant where people will look at her. Everything was always for show with her,” he sighs. “Not like with you. With you, it’s like nothing else means anything. We went fishing and caught garbage instead, and I think I got sand in my pants, and still it was the best date of my life.”

“Mine too,” Daryl replies, “but I guess I already told ya that. Yer my first after all.”

Rick licks his lips. “I’m not going to kiss you in front of so many people,” he says, because they’re in the city now and don’t have the same freedom as they did back on the beach. “But next time, on our next date, I’m gonna kiss the hell out of you, darlin’, and I don’t care about your cavities. Okay?”

Daryl chuckles, blushing, and sucks his lower lip into his mouth to bite on it without revealing the sharp, serrated tips of his teeth. “Okay,” he breathes. He’s pretty sure he’s going to think about it until he sees Rick again. Possibly while touching himself. Who’s he kidding - he’s definitely going to touch himself a lot thinking about Rick kissing him  _ with tongue. _

But he’s got a problem now, and he has to come up with a solution real fast: how is he going to hide the damn teeth?

_ Hey Jesus meet me in my room asap its an emergency, _ he texts his friend. If Jesus can’t help him, he might know of someone who could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not letting me wrangle it into the shape I wanted it to go. It's growing bigger, getting new sub-plots all the time... I don't know when it'll be finished, but I'm hoping sometime this year? It would be amazing to have finished two novel-length stories within one year, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how you all claim Daryl is cute. I write you descriptions of his jaws and you say he's cute. He's a damn Eldritch horror is what he is. Which I guess can be cute, if you're into that. I mean, Rick probably finds him real cute...

“No, Daryl, listen- no, I’m telling you,” Jesus says and rolls his eyes. “Daryl. Don’t throw a tantrum, you’re not three, it’s not cute. Come out of there right now.”

Daryl growls from inside his closet, crosses his arms on his chest, and doesn’t come out. He’s not throwing a tantrum. He’s not! He’s just hurt and doesn’t want to talk about it, because Jesus was mean to him and Daryl doesn’t know how to deal with someone being mean. Especially when he doesn’t think he completely deserved it. 

Yeah, so maybe texting the man telling him it was an emergency when _the whole damn_ _Institute _knew he had a date with Rick - a virtual stranger - that day, was a bit of a mistake. And maybe the timing wasn’t the best, either; he should’ve considered the fact that observation of the mating Great White sharks is incredibly important to somebody who’s about to finish his thesis on Great White shark mating behaviors. But he didn’t.

When Jesus ran into his place, hair in disarray, face worried, he expected to see Daryl hurt in some visible way. He thought Daryl was assaulted, maybe forced to do something he didn’t want to do, and then he thought Daryl killed someone, and then-

Then it turned out none of these were true.

“I need to hide my teeth,” Daryl said in lieu of greeting.

So really, maybe Jesus shouting at him and calling him _ fucking retarded, Daryl, for fuck’s sake, _ wasn’t all that baseless, but… well.

Daryl knows, nowadays, that what he went through over the course of the majority of his childhood was abuse. His daddy hated him, plain and simple, and he expressed that in a wide variety of creative ways which included frequent beatings, ambushes when he least expected it and, of course, a lot of yelling about every real and imagined transgression Daryl had ever committed. The physical violence didn’t matter much because due to his heritage Daryl has always been tough as fuck. But the shouting, it did something bad to him, to his psyche; he’s not some wilting flower or anything, but when people raise their voices around him, it triggers bad memories and the only thing Daryl wants to do is hide. 

So he’s hiding. In the closet. Because Jesus shouted at him, which he slowly starts to realize he might’ve deserved. 

But still.

“Okay, okay,” Jesus mutters. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he apologizes. “I sort of dropped everything I was doing for you because I panicked. That doesn’t excuse the yelling and I get that, so please come out so I can make it better, okay?”

Daryl peeks out from inside the closed. “How ya gonna make it better?” He asks suspiciously.

Jesus sighs and licks his lips. “I can start by helping you with your important problem. You said something about your teeth, right?”

“Need ‘em gone,” Daryl replies, and climbs out of the closet. 

“But, why?” Jesus asks, confused. He’s unique in Daryl’s group of friends in that after the initial terrified shock upon seeing them, he decided Daryl’s teeth are the coolest thing ever and he declared he’d exchange his _ itty-bitty human chompers _ for shark teeth in a heartbeat. To be perfectly honest, up until the logistics of his relationship with Rick came up, Daryl also appreciated the way his jaws are built. It’s useful. He can eat meat raw or cooked, with bones and without, no problem either way, and-

Oh fuck.

“Do humans eat chicken wings whole?” He asks very, very softly. 

He already knows the answer will be _ no, _but he still has a little bit of hope left. Maybe there’s something in the way the chicken wings are prepared. Maybe the bones are removed and what Daryl remembers crushing between his teeth were actually just the bread crumbs. Please, let it have been bread crumbs.

“Ummm, no,” Jesus says slowly, frowning. “We leave out the bones, obviously. Which isn’t a problem for you, is it? Unless you-” he pauses and looks at Daryl, eyes widening. “Oh God, you didn’t pay attention and ate wings with bones and all in front of your loverboy? Fuuuuck. Tell me at least they weren’t raw.”

“Fried,” Daryl mumbles.

Rick saw him eat chicken with bones. And didn’t say anything. And still wanted to kiss him afterwards. So some people might do it? Like, perhaps some people do eat wings whole, with bones and everything, so it wouldn’t be considered _ that _abnormal. People eat the weirdest things after all. Daryl heard of people eating spiders. Or snakes. Or licorice, for some reason. That’s gotta be weirder than the fried chicken bones. 

Then there’s also the possibility that Rick didn’t notice. He didn’t really look at Daryl much when they were eating, so it’s not that implausible. 

“I guess I gotta check the social media,” Jesus mutters. “If there are any posts about a monster boy in Virginia Beach, I’ll find them.”

“I need ‘em gone,” Daryl decides. “Dunno how, but teeth’s gotta go.”

The problem is, there’s not much that can be done about the teeth after all. There are tooth grinding and polishing procedures which might work if he could find a dentist who would do it for him without asking questions, but that doesn’t sound like something he’d be very lucky to find outside of Hollywood. And he probably could get a prosthetic, but it wouldn’t look natural because it’d have to be placed on top of his natural teeth.

“Honestly, at this point, I think you should just tell him,” Jesus announces after an entire hour goes by without them finding any solution whatsoever. 

“But… y’all keep sayin’ I should be keepin’ it a secret,” Daryl protests. He can’t take his eyes off of a dentist office commercial where they offer reshaping teeth into something sort of like what he has. It looks vaguely terrifying. And definitely painful. Like, even for him. He’s not sure he’s that committed, to be honest.

Who’s he kidding. If he doesn’t find another way, he’s going to ask Carol to get him an appointment. Pain is a small price to pay for being with Rick.

Though… if he could just tell Rick, that would be even better.

“Well, I don’t see how you could keep it a secret from the guy you wanna bang,” Jesus says, tilting his head to the side. “You’re serious about that dude, aren’t you?”

“Dunno wha’cha mean,” Daryl grumbles.

Jesus sighs. “I mean, you want to be with him, not just have sex with him once and forget he exists, yeah?”

“Wanna bite him,” Daryl replies, confused. “Want him to bite me. ‘s that answer yer question?”

“I sincerely don’t know. In sharks? That’d just mean wanting to bang and have pups together. It’s all about the mating season and compatibility. But regardless of the way your jaws are built, you’re not really a shark. For all I know, your kind may mate for life,” Jesus says, shrugging. “That would definitely explain why you aren’t interested in anybody else but your writer. Normally, male sharks engage in competitions to win the female’s interest, but you just fixated on that single man and don’t see anybody else, do you?”

“Ain’t a female,” Daryl protests, huffing. 

Jesus chuckles, though it seems to be completely devoid of humor. “Believe me, I know,” he assures. “I’ve seen enough of you to be sure. Thing is, I talked to Eric briefly, and your behavior really doesn’t match up with male Great Whites either. That means we should be treating you like a separate species - which, well, you are, so that’s fair. That’s the problem, though. We can’t be sure about anything with you because there’s no precedence. Unless you know of others like you who could help?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Only my brother’s still alive, I think,” he mutters, “but he ain’t gonna help. Dunno where he’s at. But… makes sense,” he sighs. “That our kind would mate for life, I mean. Explains why my momma wouldna left my dad. Why she let him,” he trails off.

He remembers, when he was nine years old, when he woke up during the night to the overwhelming smell of blood. Merle wasn’t living with them at that point, wandering who knew where, so it couldn’t have been him killing someone again. Daryl called for momma, but she didn’t come - she usually went wandering the woods at night, so he wasn’t worried. Instead, he tried to find out where the smell came from on his own. He was always light on his feet, he learned to be sneaky thanks to his daddy’s constant attempts to hurt him; he utilized those skills when he went to the kitchen, wondering if maybe momma managed to hunt them down a deer and they’d be eating well over the next few days-

He found her on the kitchen floor, bleeding, still warm, but dead. Her eyes were wide open, glassy, almost surprised, and her face looked so apologetic. 

Daryl’s daddy didn’t beat him that night. No; he handed him a shovel and made him dig a grave behind their shoddy cabin. Daryl did as he was told. He got two broken ribs and a black eye for his troubles, anyway. 

He always thought she could’ve fought him. His momma, she was a shark. She could’ve defended herself easy from a drunk, mean human with a knife. But she didn’t. She let Will Dixon kill her in one of his booze-induced rage attacks, and. She didn’t do anything. There was not a scratch on him. 

If the hypothesis Jesus proposed is true… if those like Daryl mate for life, does that mean they’d rather die than hurt their mate? It’s a somewhat disturbing prospect. Daryl thought about it before, about how some humans tend to mate for life, but he's not completely ignorant: he knows that for their kind, it's a choice to stay loyal to their partners. What he's looking at now is a possibility that he would operate under a biological compulsion to stay faithful and do everything in his power to make his potential mate happy, even at the cost of his own safety and emotional well-being. Daryl isn’t sure he’s ready for this level of commitment to a man he’s only known for a couple of days, even though he already feels he could do anything Rick Grimes asked for even though nobody’s been bitten just yet.

But then again, Merle had sex with multiple different girls. He didn’t seem to be mated to any of them. Wasn’t even fond of them, at all. So maybe Daryl’s overthinking things again. 

“Well anyway, if you’re serious about your man, you should tell him,” Jesus concludes. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to get over that shit. I mean… after I found out, I sort of locked myself up in my room and jumped at every noise, wondering when you’d be coming to eat me, I admit. But then soon enough, I decided I kinda liked the thought of you eating me, if you get my meaning- no, of course you don’t get it,” Jesus rolls his eyes and smiles in fond resignation. “What I’m saying is, you gotta tell him, and then give him space. He’s probably going to freak out at first, but then he’ll get used to the idea that his beau isn’t human and, afterwards, you two are likely going to try to make a lot of shark babies.”

“But we’re both male,” Daryl protests _ again, _ even more confused than before.

Jesus chuckles. “Sure you are, we established that already,” he agrees. “But it’s not gonna stop you trying. Believe me, once you discover what sex is like with another person, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

Daryl doesn’t really doubt that he’s going to like sex a lot once he gets around to doing it with Rick. He’s just not sure if it’s ever going to happen, because what if his teeth prove to be too off-putting? His teeth and his rough skin, and the fact that he’s about as smart as a sponge when it comes to romance. And he might mate for life. Which humans don’t really do. 

“I wanna swim,” Daryl announces.

He pouts when Jesus immediately reminds him he’s banned from the Biter Tank. “Henry might see you as a rival now,” he explains, even though Daryl doesn’t really need the explanation. He’s not stupid. He _ knows _his hormones are a danger to him if any Great Whites sense them. After all, he almost ended up Lydia’s meal not too long ago. But there are other tanks in the Institute and, besides, there’s the whole damn wide ocean he can swim in. There haven’t been any shark sightings near the shoreline in months, so he thinks it’d be relatively safe even for a human to go swimming. And he needs it, to clear his mind. 

“Alright, you go swimming,” Jesus finally acquiesces. “Just give me a second to grab my papers, I’ll go with you. I’ll watch your clothes or something.”

So they go to the same beach where Daryl had the fancy fried chicken with Rick earlier. Jesus is very polite and pretends not to stare when Daryl strips naked. He folds all of Daryl’s clothes and sets them in a neat pile on the bench, then sets up with his laptop to return to the work Daryl selfishly interrupted earlier.

The water is different in the ocean than Daryl’s gotten used to from swimming in the tanks every day. Despite the best efforts of the architects and the staff to simulate the natural marine environment, the tanks are still unquestioningly artificial. It’s basically impossible to simulate the tiny differences in temperature between layers of water on a sunny day, or the bubbles tickling the limbs at the softest pressure into the sand beneath Daryl’s feet. People think even the saltiness of the water is a constant in the ocean, but it’s not. Daryl lowers himself into the shallows from the pier, submerges himself fully and breaths in that first lungful of saltwater. His whole body shudders from the strain of the internal transformation, or whatever it is that happens to him, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain before he opens them wide. 

Immediately his additional, inhuman senses are assaulted by the multitude of impulses of life in the oceanic depths; he can feel movement around him, everywhere, and his nose picks up the scents of a million life forms big and small. It’s what freedom feels like, he thinks, and he swims. Giving into his body’s basest urges, he chases a bass, catches it with his mouth and eats it whole, then turns his attention to a curious splash in the distance which turns out to have come from a large turtle. The turtle he lets go without engaging, mostly because he doesn’t have the power in his jaws to bite through the shell, but also a bit because unlike real sharks, he recognizes the harm of eating a specimen of an endangered species. He doesn’t know if this particular turtle is indeed endangered, but he doesn’t want to risk it. 

And anyway, it’s more fun to just swim after it, giving in to his instincts which tell him to stalk after potential prey, circle it, follow it for hours if need be. The turtle recognizes the predator in him and does its best to evade him, and Daryl doesn’t let up, even when he realizes the damn thing is leading him in circles, likely hoping to tire him out. 

It’s not easy to exhaust a shark. After all, they go their entire lives doing nothing but swimming: swimming in their sleep, swimming as they eat, swimming until they die. Constant motion, constant hunt, restless, seemingly tireless. But it’s a myth that sharks don’t get tired. Of course sharks can get tired, eventually, after chasing their prey for hours and hours; they’re living creatures, not machines, and despite their best efforts, sometimes even they are forced to abandon the chase. It’s rarely a problem because the attention span of a shark is comparable to that of a two-year-old human pup. Once its intended dinner gets away, the shark simply turns its interest to the next tasty-smelling thing it spots, and the whole affair begins anew.

That’s how Daryl knows all those stories about sharks purposefully hunting humans - the stories Rick Grimes came to Virginia Beach to pursue - are all bullshit. How could there exist such a beast when, in truth, sharks are far too simple-minded to develop a taste for anything in particular, let alone to actively target it when there are so many easier hunts to be chased in the same waters? Even regardless of the nutritional value of human meat, the focus such a conviction to hunt humans rather than other prey would require simply cannot be perpetrated by a shark’s brain. 

Their brains are tiny in comparison to their overall body mass. Even in their own kingdom, in the ocean where they are considered apex predators, sharks are rather… dumb. 

Daryl isn’t, though. He’s got a human brain and even now, lost in the thrill of the chase, he can make use of it, and that's why his chase takes as long as it does. The turtle gets away, probably relieved and as thankful for its life as a reptile can be, as Daryl finally gives up.

It's not mercy that makes him let the turtle go. Something is wrong in the water, Daryl thinks. He can’t feel cold, but his rough skin is covered in goosebumps as if he were freezing, and the hairs all over his body stand. It’s like a prickle of something, some sort of electric impulse going from his sides through his spine and to his brain, lighting it up, _ red alert. _ He can’t see anything, but he _ senses it, _and he doesn’t know what it is, but he knows it’s nothing good. 

_ A predator, _ his mind supplies. _ Something much bigger, much badder than you. _

It’s nothing like when he was trying to evade Lydia in the Biter Tank. There was an underlying sense of danger there, yes, and Daryl was aware that death was not a distinct possibility, but rather a very probable outcome of the whole ordeal; but it was nothing compared to the most primal _ dread _ he’s feeling now. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt in his life. It’s a little like _ Will Dixon yelling at him, calling him a freak, stabbing him over and over, _but more, striking deeper, and all of a sudden the open waters around him feel oppressive. Like a trap. 

_ Fuck, _he thinks, and swims back. He’s not that far from the shore, he can see the wooden pillars of the pier from where he is, he can sense the water hitting the bottom of the motorboat moored there. He’ll be safe when he’s on the shore. He’ll be fine. He’s just got to swim. That’s what he’s good at, isn’t he, swimming? He’s good at-

Something grabs his leg and Daryl thrashes wildly without looking back. Teeth, or something like teeth, hold him, the smell of his own blood fills his nostrils. Blindly, he bites at whatever it is holding him and it lets go, momentarily surprised. A shape behind him, immense, dark, but it’s not a shark. It’s not a shark, it’s something far, far worse, and he shakes his head and forces himself to swim faster, pushes his body to surpass its own limits because- 

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to be eaten.

He breaches the water surface like he’s jumping to catch some unsuspecting prey, and he lands heavily on the hard wood of the pier, breathing fast, gulping for air, wondering if he’s having a fucking heart attack in addition to the usual pain of leaving the water. His calf is bleeding and he just knows there’s a chunk missing, and there’s blood in his mouth, and Daryl looks back into the water with his eyes wide open, searching for that immense danger under the surface - but there’s nothing there. Not even a splash out of place. 

“What the hell happened?” Jesus asks. He’s breathless, like he got startled out of his work by Daryl’s sudden resurfacing, like he ran to the pier to assist him.

“I… dunno,” Daryl mutters, frowning, and it’s true. 

He was attacked by something. Something that intended to kill him. The intent to harm him, to _ devour him, _ was so strong in that moment, he actually felt it like it was something tangible. It couldn’t have been a shark. It couldn’t have been anything he can identify. That cold, almost calculated intent to kill didn’t belong to anything in the animal kingdom. Except for-

The blood in his mouth tastes human.

“Come on, I’ll help you get to the infirmary,” Jesus offers and helps Daryl up. He doesn’t even seem to notice Daryl’s nakedness in this moment, likely distracted by the fact there’s a large portion of Daryl’s leg just missing. He covers him up with his own hoodie, though, before they enter the building. There's nobody in the halls, most of the staff busy with the mating Great Whites, and it's probably a blessing because it would be hard to explain why exactly Daryl's leaving a trail of blood all over the floor.

“Sharks?” Denise asks in the infirmary. She has her hands full of gauze and disinfectants even before Jesus can fully haul Daryl inside. 

Daryl sort of wants to roll his eyes and tell them to just give him a bucket of saltwater he can put his leg into, the missing tissue will grow back in no time - but he’s still rattled, his heartbeat is way too fast, and he thinks he might pass out. Pain, it’s not that significant, he’s had worse, he’s lived through his damn father’s abuse, but. That terror, that primal fear he felt in the deep, it’s still there. Still in him. 

Jesus takes it upon himself to reply for him. “Not sharks, but we don’t know what,” he says. “I didn’t see a damn thing. I swear.”

“Why was he swimming naked in the first place?” Denise asks, tone reproachful, and Jesus mumbles something vague in reply. 

Daryl exhales loudly, inhales. Exhales again. Rick. He misses Rick. There’s a foul taste in his mouth, something sour and sickly sweet all at once, blood, but not the sort of blood he likes in beef steaks. He feels like he’s choking, and immediately his throat contracts painfully, and he coughs - and then spits out teeth, and blood, and… something. Something black and rough. Like skin. Hard, treated hide. 

No, plastic. Latex? Something.

“What… what is that?” Denise asks faintly. Daryl has a feeling she doesn’t mean the black material he spit out. The teeth are much more interesting, if he says so himself. 

She doesn’t know about Daryl. Well. She didn’t. Now might be a good time to tell her. He hopes Jesus can handle it. He really can’t. 

He thinks he’s going to black out.

“Daryl,” he hears and cracks an eye open - when did he close it? He can’t remember. But he opens it, and Carol is standing there, looking down on him with worry in her eyes. 

“Is a fuckin’ killer whale in these waters, Carol,” he mutters, then lets out a shuddering breath because suddenly, he understands why he was so terrified. Why he still is. It's like his body knew before his mind caught up, and it makes sense. Instincts. His instincts are never wrong.

“Told y’all orcas ain’t nice,” he adds, remembering the blonde girl with Rick’s group in the aquarium. Beth? Beth. The one who asked about orcas and was so surprised Daryl didn’t want to talk about them. 

Well this is fucking why.

“‘s a damn orca an’ ‘s wanted my liv’r,” he slurs, and Carol says something in reply, caressing his face, and her hands are warm, and Rick’s hands are warm, and Daryl thinks he’s going to tell Rick that he’s a shark. Because he loves Rick, and there’s a killer whale in the ocean, a killer whale with black polyester skin, and Daryl has to protect Rick- he has to-

He sleeps, and he dreams of the immense shape lurking in the depths, waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some plot is happening! But don't worry, soon we'll be going back to cute dates and things. Next chapter: Sophia is back from her trip and wants to spend time with her favorite shark. Rick crashes the party.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amusement park, part one!

Daryl wakes up some time on the next day, submerged in the relatively shallow pool on top of one of the emergency tanks used for new rescues. It’s been empty for a while, but the water is well-filtered and Daryl can breathe easy. He sighs, adjusts the pair of uncomfortable swimming trunks he’s dressed in, and examines his leg and is satisfied to see that the calf looks like there was never a chunk missing out of it. Well, for the most part. There’s an obvious scar in the shape of an ellipse, slightly jagged around the edges, and the new skin is a shade lighter because it hasn’t been exposed to sunlight yet. There’s no pain left, though. That is just a scary memory. 

“Ah good, you’re awake,” Jesus says as soon as Daryl swims up to the surface. He’s not who Daryl wants to see, not really; there’s a deep ache of longing and loneliness within his chest as he thinks about Rick. It’s almost like he hasn’t seen the man in weeks when in fact, judging by the level of his hunger, he was unconscious for two to three days at most. It’s not so bad that he should be missing Rick already. 

But damn if he isn’t.

“I’ll call Denise, she needs to clear you before you can leave the water,” Jesus informs him.

Daryl frowns. Now that he thinks about it, he can vaguely remember throwing up some teeth in front of the doctor, so, yeah. The cat’s out of the bag, with her at least. 

“Food?” He asks. He has two priorities now. He wants to eat something, and he _ needs to see Rick. _ It surprises him that the desire to see the other man seems to be even stronger than hunger, but then again, maybe it shouldn’t be surprising. Rick is… important. Really, really important. And food? Yeah, so he likes to eat a lot, but he doesn’t _ have to. _ He’s capable of going for weeks without eating if the situation requires it. He’s not entirely sure he’d be capable of going for weeks without Rick.

“Just texted Carol, she’ll be here shortly,” Jesus announces, looking down at his phone. “She’ll bring you something appropriately raw and bloody.”

Daryl nods, and bites down on his lower lip, chewing it nervously for a second. “Ya got my phone somewhere?” 

Jesus frowns. “This might be the first time you’re actively wanting your phone. Everything alright there?”

“... Rick don’t know what happened,” Daryl explains softly. Damn, he feels so dumb for saying it. Like a lovestruck girl from some rom-com. 

“Ah,” Jesus huffs in acknowledgment, and rolls his eyes. “I’ll get your phone after I tell Denise you’re up and running. Some clothes too, no need to give everyone a show.”

Daryl shrugs, but accepts it. Jesus leaves, and Daryl takes the time he’s alone to swim around a little, wading around the shallow basin to give his muscles a much needed workout. He tries not to think too much about the attack which landed him in this water tank in need of medical attention, but unfortunately, it’s difficult to ignore. The repercussions of what happened are too terrifying to try and pretend it never happened.

He was bitten by something that was an orca, and was not. Black polyester skin, what he spit out along with his teeth… it was a wetsuit, wasn’t it? He’s pretty sure. So whatever it was that tried to eat him - and, fuck, yeah, he’s absolutely certain it wanted to eat him, not just maul him, not just hurt him for the sake of it - whatever that thing was, it was partially human.

Like him.

He always knew, deep down, that he and his family can’t be the only ones out there. There was always bound to be another shark like him in the deep wide oceans, and Daryl may not have expected to run into them, but he was still prepared for it in some capacity. A killer whale, though? This is something he’s not ready to face off against. Especially when in spite of its supposed humanity, the orca seemed to be driven by the same urges its bigger relatives harbor when it comes to actual Great White sharks. 

He’s broken out of the unhappy thoughts when the door opens to allow in some most welcome visitors.

“Hey there, Pookie,” Carol greets him as she enters the room with the emergency tank. “Guess who’s here,” she adds mischievously, and takes a step aside to reveal Sophia walking in behind her. The girl is grinning, and she quickly runs over to sit by the edge of the pool. Daryl gets out of the water enough to let Sophia wrap her arms around him in a quick hug, and he smiles at her laughter about getting wet.

“I missed you, Daryl,” the girl says. “Next time, I’ll be taking you with me. Boston is nice, but it would’ve been nicer with you. We saw the Harvard University, you know? Went inside and everything, they gave us a short tour, and it’s so _ old _and, I don’t know, so distinguished. I could spend the whole day there. No, two days! Ten! A hundred!”

“Yer gonna get bored of it once ya actually get in,” Daryl assures her, fondly amused by her excitement. 

Sophia is only thirteen, but she’s already got her sights set for her future career. She’s planning to get a few biological degrees and expand on some of the Institute’s research into furthering the protection of oceanic ecosystems. She’s got her eyes on a program in Harvard, and Daryl doesn’t doubt that his girl is gonna get in once the time for that arrives, if she’s still into it in a few years.

Because while the direction of her interests makes him insanely proud, he won’t be disappointed if Sophia decides to do something else later in life. He’s rather convinced he’s going to be proud of her just as well. 

“We brought you a steak, by the way,” Carol says, passing Daryl a food container. He shouldn’t be eating in the water, but he doesn’t want to get out yet, not before Denise gives him an all-clear. So he compromises by propping himself against the edge of the pool, careful to keep his lower body submerged. And he devours the steak, because _ eating _is not the right word for how fast he’s finished with the very delightfully uncooked cut of meat. 

“Watching you it is disgusting,” Carol announces. 

Sophia giggles. “I think it’s fascinating,” she says. “It’s like watching sharks feed, but with a human. I wish I had those teeth…”

“Ya wouldna like it,” Daryl informs her drily. He’s not completely over the dislike for his teeth on account of being unable to kiss Rick like he wanted to, just yet. He’s a little less inclined to get them smoothed out now that they probably saved his life, but still.

Jesus returns with Denise who doesn’t look Daryl in the face during the entire time she checks up on his leg. It’s weird. Normally, she never hesitated to have nice little chats with Daryl who she claimed reminded her of her late brother. But now? She’s silent until she finally decides:

“You’re fine, you can go,” and she turns her back on Daryl without another word.

So she’s not as accepting of what he is as Daryl would’ve hoped for. 

“You’ve got to understand, it’s not easy to come to terms with something like that,” Jesus says. “If someone showed you a real fire-breathing dragon, how would you react?”

“Dunno,” Daryl admits gruffly. He hopes Denise will come around eventually, like Jesus did. Like Eric, Aaron, even Ezekiel. It’s so difficult to reveal secrets to people. 

“Let’s go to the amusement park! You promised to take me,” Sophia reminds him as soon as Daryl’s dressed in his casual jeans and a t-shirt, and out the door. 

“Sophia, darling, he’s barely out of recovery. Can’t it wait a while?” Carol admonishes. 

But Daryl shakes his head. “No, ‘s fine. We can go,” he decides. He’s been looking forward to winning that giant shark plushie at the shooting booth in the amusement park for a few weeks now, just never had the time to drop by. He wants it for Sophia. The stuffed toy is almost as long as the girl is tall, and she could snuggle up to it at night. Maybe it would help with some leftover nightmares she still has sometimes. It could be her own guardian shark.

So they go. Daryl takes the dollar bills Carol hands him for snacks because he knows that _ she knows _he’s going to be very hungry again soon; and Sophia makes sure to take her polaroid camera along. Even though she’s not a little pup anymore, Sophia still likes to hold on to Daryl when they go somewhere together. He’d even be willing to give the girl some piggyback rides, she’s not too heavy for that and he doubts she’s ever going to be; but Sophia doesn’t seem to appreciate the idea. 

She holds onto his arm, though, as they walk to the amusement park.

It’s almost a permanent attraction of this part of Virginia Beach. The park is located almost adjacent to the Institute’s south walls, and the placement is really mutually beneficial. That’s why the amusement park has a lot of shark-related souvenirs and a very nice shark trivia quiz every Thursday throughout the tourist season; and the Institute, on the other hand, offers major discounts at the souvenir shop to visitors who come with the wristband given out to people on entrance to the park. Additionally, the staff from the Institute don’t pay for entry to the amusement park, and it also works the other way around. Of course, it also extends to their families. 

It only takes a flash of Daryl’s Institute ID card for the girl at the entrance to give them the wristbands and let them in. The amusement park is not extremely busy these days, still awaiting its prime popularity period to come in summer, but it’s not entirely desolate either. It’s popular with the locals, actually, due to the low prices and really good food stalls. While in some cities youngsters like to go to malls to spend time, here the amusement park serves as the trending spot to hang out. 

Sophia points at one of the three pendulum rides at the park. It’s very tall and Daryl watches in fascination as the arms of the giant contraption swing up and down in a motion so fast, he almost gives himself a whiplash trying to follow. 

“Ain’t gonna happen,” he says quickly.

Sophia pouts. “You’re no fun,” she accuses, but sighs and chooses another ride. Unfortunately, Daryl knows her too well. He also knows himself. He’s already resigned himself to the fact that he’s going to be taking her to that giant pendulum ride before the day is over.

But first, they ride a twister which has Sophia squealing loudly, and throws Daryl slightly off-balance for a good twenty minutes afterwards. Then they go to a calmer merry-go-round which still spins faster than the typical pup-dedicated attractions should. The long roller-coaster ride they get on after that is Daryl’s favorite so far: the pace might be fast, but the track is very tall with some really steep dips, and goes all the way around the amusement park. Not only do the sudden pressure changes remind Daryl of diving into the deep, but the height of the ride lets him admire the open view of the ocean. For a moment there, he wonders what it would be like to jump into the waves from this height. 

He’s not dumb, he realizes he’d most likely die on impact, but… it almost seems worth it.

“Is it anything like swimming?” Sophia asks curiously later, when the ride is over. 

Daryl shrugs. “Not really,” he replies. “‘s nice too, y’know, goin’ fast an’ so high up. No wonder ya humans always talk ‘bout wantin’ to fly. Me, I prefer swimmin’, but that don’t mean I can’t enjoy a lil’ flyin’ from time to time.”

“So does it mean we’ll be taking the Sledgehammer?” Sophia asks slyly, motioning towards the tall pendulum ride with her head.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “We’ll see,” he mutters. 

Sophia grins, because she knows it for the win it is.

They have a snack from the booth selling fried potatoes in more configurations than Daryl’s ever thought potatoes could be cooked. Daryl’s curly fries are some of the best he’s ever eaten, he’s got to admit, and he easily devours two helpings as well as some of Sophia’s leftovers. It’s easy to eat fries with his mouth closed. They’re soft from the start and don’t require excessive tearing or chewing, so it’s easy to be discreet. 

Unlike fried chicken wings, he thinks worriedly. 

Sometime between the attractions, Daryl remembered to check his phone for any signs of contact from Rick. He didn’t find any. There wasn’t a single text, any missed calls. Nothing. Like it hasn’t been two days since their date. It stung like a damn manta ray, because Daryl hoped Rick would’ve missed him as much as he missed Rick; but then he reminds himself forcefully that Rick wants _ him _to control the pace of this relationship they have. So it's likely that this isn't Rick breaking it off. Maybe he wasn’t so much deterred by Daryl eating chicken wings whole, but instead just didn’t want to pressure him into unwilling contact. 

He can’t read minds, after all: so he’s got no idea that Daryl finds himself needing him as much as he needs to breathe. 

Daryl doesn’t let his missing Rick cast any shadows on his day out with Sophia, though. He leads Sophia to the shooting booth and, with just a few precise shots, to the cheers of the audience that inevitably gathers around the booth, he wins that damn giant shark plush for the girl. The shooting booth clerk - a young woman, possibly younger than Jesus - makes eyes at Daryl, and he can smell her interest which he obviously doesn’t reciprocate. It doesn’t deter her easily and Daryl wonders just what it is that those people like about him when he couldn't be any more disinterested without being downright rude.

“Maybe you could show me how well you can handle other weapons,” she suggests and, well, yeah; Daryl knows very little about flirting, but he knows all about innuendos. 

He can’t help but roll his eyes. “Nope,” he says, and points at the shark on the shelf behind her. “We want that one,” he informs drily.

Sophia grins like a shark, all teeth. That is to say, sharks don’t really grin, but it sure looks like they do from a certain perspective. “I’m gonna name him Daryl,” she announces cheekily. 

“Nah, ya can’t,” Daryl protests. He frowns, looking for a reason good enough to change your mind. “‘s a girl shark,” he decides finally, watching as the woman from the booth carries it over and puts it on the counter. 

Sophia only takes a moment to regain her composure. “Girl, huh,” she repeats. “Well in that case, she’s going to be Darlene,” she rectifies with a smirk that’s just full of mischief. She looks a lot like her mother just now. 

Daryl lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, ya lil’ nightmare,” he agrees. “‘s long as ya don’t go hollerin’ ‘round the place about it,” he mutters under his breath.

“You have such a wonderful bond with your sister,” the young woman from the booth says, trying to insert herself into the conversation.

Daryl blinks, and says: “She ain’t my sister,” just as Sophia supplies:

“Daryl’s not my brother.”

The woman looks at them in confusion and just a little bit of fear - Daryl remembers suddenly that Carol warned him many times to be careful not to be taken for a pervert who likes little girls - and probably realizing the danger, Sophia adds: “He’s my dad,” which is not true as far as blood relations go, but might as well be in any other aspect. 

They apparently look enough alike to make the lie believable enough. The young woman is visibly placated and maybe just a little hesitant when she asks where Sophia’s mother is.

“With her fiance,” Sophia replies with a shrug. “Can we go?” She asks Daryl, tugging on his forearm.

Daryl nods. “Thanks for the shark,” he says to the booth lady, and turns to leave, opening his mouth to ask Sophia where next she wants to go-

And there, among the dispersing crowd of his earlier spectators, he sees Rick Grimes looking at him with those incredible blue eyes of his. 

“Rick,” he whispers breathlessly. Everything inside him sort of shifts, like his entire focus is suddenly on the other man and nothing else in the world exists. How the fuck did he manage to _ not _ sense Rick’s presence, to _ not _smell him so near? 

“Daryl,” Rick acknowledges, inclining his head. He doesn’t look like he’s entirely happy with Daryl right now. “You’ve met my son Carl,” he motions to the boy holding his hand. 

Daryl nods, and smiles at the pup. “Howdy, Carl,” he greets. 

“Hello, Mr. Daryl,” Carl replies cheerfully, completely oblivious to the weird mood between the grown-ups. He looks in wonderment at Sophia and, more likely, the giant shark plushie she’s holding. “Wow,” he sighs wistfully. 

Daryl immediately wants to offer winning another shark for the boy this time. But Rick is looking at him strangely. At him and Sophia. Like he’s not liking something about the picture he’s seeing.

Finally, realization dawns on Daryl. _ Rick heard Sophia. _He thinks Sophia is Daryl’s daughter, and if that were true, that would mean Daryl lied to him earlier. Because Daryl said he’s never been with anyone before.

“Y’all ain’t met Sophia yet,” Daryl says, quickly deciding to rectify the situation. “She’s my best friend Carol’s daughter. Been treatin’ her as my own for close to ten years now.”

_ Bingo. _Immediately, the tension leaves Rick’s form and his posture relaxes. Warmth seeps back into those impossibly blue eyes and the man even allows himself to smile. 

“Pleasure to meet you, young lady,” he says, charming and so incredibly beautiful. “I’m Rick Grimes, I write some pretty bad books. And this kiddo is my boy Carl.”

“I like your shark,” Carl speaks up somewhat shyly. 

“Thanks,” Sophia replies and, with a gleeful grin and a sideways look at Daryl, she adds, “Her name’s Darlene.”

And really, Daryl should feel some measure of indignation at the way Rick snickers at the revelation. He should be offended or something. But he’s not. He likes the way Rick’s eyes twinkle with honest amusement, not an inkling of ill-will in his open expression. He likes how Carl laughs, emboldened by his father’s reaction. He likes how Sophia looks so proud of herself for making a very effective joke in front of the new acquaintances. 

He likes how Rick eventually stops laughing and asks, somewhat coy, “Can we join you guys for some rides? To be honest, I have no idea what here’s good. Of course, we wouldn’t wanna impose-”

“Yeah, join us,” Daryl interrupts him. “Hey lil’ guy, ya want a big shark too?”

Carl’s eyes widen, and he nods frantically. Daryl looks to Sophia to make sure she doesn’t mind, and when she confirms that it’s fine, Daryl turns back to the booth, his mind set on winning another giant shark plushie which might get named after him to mock him. He’s surprisingly fine with it. He just wants to win so that Rick can beam at him and maybe touch him, and give him that pretty smile which warms Daryl’s entire body from the inside out. 

He really, really missed Rick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of fluffy feelings here because I needed it. The second part should come later this week and will also have a lot of fluffy feelings.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, please enjoy the second part of the fluff in the amusement park!

Sophia gets on with Carl surprisingly well, considering the age difference between them. Daryl wonders if it might be because the girl always wanted to have siblings. The truth is, Sophia is a little lonely sometimes when neither Daryl nor Carol have a lot of time for her. She feels quite confident in the company of adults, judging by how often she hangs out with Jesus; but she’s more self-conscious among pups her age, and while Daryl himself doesn’t care about social interactions, he knows that it’s considered healthy for a human pup to form meaningful connections with other pups. He worries about Sophia, and he doesn’t like the fact that she’s never had a best friend, or a crush on someone, or a sleepover on a non-school night. Of course, maybe his view of what a thirteen-year-old girl is supposed to act like is biased, since it’s mostly taken out of the romance movies they watched together; but still, there has to be some basis on reality even in chick flicks or nobody would ever take them seriously. 

So when Sophia actually takes to Carl, Daryl can’t help but feel immense relief for more than one reason. It’s not just because Carl is Rick’s pup, and Daryl really needs Sophia to like Rick and everything about him. No: he’s actually simply happy that Sophia talks to someone who’s not at least ten years older.

He watches the pups walk a few steps in front of himself and Rick, both clutching their giant shark plushies as they head towards the next attraction Sophia selected. Carl’s shark is slightly smaller, but has a meaner face which reminds Daryl of Merle for some reason. It’s a good thing the toy is smaller than Sophia’s, because as it is, Rick’s pup himself is barely tall enough to carry it without dragging its tail on the ground. 

“You know you didn’t have to do that,” Rick says, pointing towards the shark in his boy’s arms. 

“‘s fine,” Daryl assures him. “Like shootin’, always been good at it, an’ ‘s nice to make pups happy.”

“What is it about sharks anyway,” Rick wonders out loud, “that makes them so fascinating? For kids, I mean. And for adults, I guess. I mean, I’m just curious, not complaining. After all, I’m about to cash in on that with the next book, right?”

“Pups like monster stories,” Daryl says, shrugging. It’s the truth, even though he doesn’t like the implication that sharks are monsters. Yeah, they’re cold-blooded killers and sometimes, humans fall victims to that. But doesn’t monstrosity require a certain purposefulness for one to be considered a monster? A willingness to commit terrible atrocities? To Daryl, calling sharks monsters is an oversimplification. Like calling wildfire a monster, attributing a sort of willful lust for destruction to it which is actually only inherent in humankind. 

It makes sense for the young ones, to try and explain the world in such simple terms. Not so much for adults, though.

Funnily enough, since they hadn’t started out seeing eye to eye on this matter, right now Rick says basically the same thing. “I think a lot of that misconception about sharks falls to our lack of understanding,” he acknowledges. “We see a big animal with a lot of teeth, and then we see images of it killing other animals, animals which might be considered cute like seals or, you know, more seals. The way sharks eat isn’t pretty, either, is it? It’s violent, bloody. Of course we’re going to cast the predator as the bad guy. And then we learn that predator is capable of killing us, too.”

“I get it,” Daryl mutters. “Ain’t sayin’ nothin’, see, I get how sharks ain’t exactly pet material. Just meant that pups like scary shit, ‘s long as it’s not close enough to actually hurt ‘em. ‘s a good thing we can educate ‘em too.”

“You’re good at educating people,” Rick informs him in a tone that’s more teasing than mocking: nothing mean about it. “Young ones and old ones like me, too.”

“Y’ain’t old,” Daryl protests, chuckling. “Ain’t a speck a gray in yer hair.”

“Well, okay, but I’m definitely not a pup,” Rick agrees. 

Daryl hums but doesn’t say anything, pretending like he has to consider it. He doesn’t know how old Rick is exactly, though he expects them to be close in age. It’s not like it really matters to him all that much. Rick could be twice his age for all he cares, Daryl would still want to bite him and be bitten by him all the same. 

He wonders briefly what Rick would look like at fifty years old or more. If his imagination is to be trusted, well. He’s going to be just as beautiful as he is right now, with his hair gray but still thick and curling, and the laughter lines around his eyes more pronounced, and everything. Daryl hopes he’ll get to see it for himself, regardless of whether the reality matches his vision or not. 

So maybe he’s not as opposed to that  _ mating for life  _ possibility as he thought.

“That one,” Sophia decides with a grin, pointing towards a starfish-themed swing ride which has a big line forming towards it. It’s got pastel-pink starfish-shaped mini-cabins with baby blue benches inside. They’re ugly as fuck and Daryl can’t see the appeal, but apparently it’s a new attraction and everyone wants to try it out. That explains the unusual off-season crowd.

Daryl looks at Rick. “Yer okay with the pup goin’ on it?” He asks worriedly, resisting the urge to chew on his lower lip. Despite its childish coloring, the ride doesn’t look like it was designed with young pups in mind. Daryl’s acutely aware that his  _ parenting style _ where he’s always so lenient with Sophia and lets her have anything she wants is not considered the best, but Carol’s alright with it as long as Daryl doesn’t try to undermine her authority in any manner. He’s just not sure Rick will be just as accepting; the thing is, maybe Daryl should be stricter, maybe some of the rides he allows Sophia to choose for them aren’t exactly safe or advisable for pups. They do have age restrictions, he notes belatedly. It’s just that the age restrictions don’t apply when the pup’s going with a guardian.

Rick smiles at him, though, immediately assuaging his fears. “Well. With the  _ pup  _ going _ ,  _ yeah, I’m fine with it. I’m a bit worried about myself, to be honest,” he jokes. Or is it a joke? He’s smiling, but his eyes look serious. A little anxious. 

“Could hold yer hand,” Daryl offers softly, so as the pups don’t hear. He’s not going to hide his feelings for Rick from Sophia, he couldn’t even if he wanted to, the girl’s too perceptive for that - but he wouldn’t want to reveal anything to Carl if Rick prefers his son not to know. 

But then: “I’d definitely take you up on that, if it’s technically possible,” Rick replies mischievously. “Unless your little girl has something against it?”

“Nah,” Daryl assures. “She gonna tease me forever, but she ain’t gonna mind, not really.”

“Good,” Rick says. But then he sighs. “Those benches look really small though.”

The queue moves frustratingly slow, though the pace turns out worse for the pups than it is for Daryl who can at least pass the time stealing sidelong admiring glances at Rick when he thinks nobody is looking at him. It’s so amazing, being able to watch the man interact with his son. From his own childhood, Daryl doesn’t have a great frame of reference for father-son relationships, but he can tell that Rick’s definitely a great dad. Carl isn’t nervous or fearful around him, nor withdrawn like Sophia used to be in those early days; he asks questions, curious and bold, and even demands ice cream at some point. 

“Only one scoop, and after the ride,” Rick replies sternly, and the pup’s reaction is to pout. “No pouting! Your mom’s gonna have kittens if I let you eat too much junk. I already agreed to pizza night, didn’t I?”

At that, Carl relents and returns to a conversation with Sophia about some animated movie featuring a talking shark. 

“He stayin’ with you?” Daryl asks a few moments later, when there are only a few people in the line in front of them and Carl and Sophia clutch their toy sharks excitedly. 

“Carl? Only for the weekend,” Rick says, shaking his head. “He’s got school on Monday. I’m sure his mother won’t mind me taking him for the summer once school is over, though. It’ll give her time to spend with her new boyfriend,” he finishes somewhat bitterly. 

Daryl feels a sudden need to comfort him, and he discreetly touches his hand in silent reassurance. He’s awarded with the warmest smile and Rick twines their fingers together, holding his hand shamelessly like he doesn’t care who might look at them. 

When Daryl was much younger and understood even less about the way the world is supposed to work, he was under Merle’s influence for a time. It wasn’t a good thing, he realized later: Merle wasn’t a decent guy. In fact, Merle was the furthest thing from decent. He hated everyone, including Daryl on most days; and obviously, he had a very low opinion on everything he considered unnatural. Funny, that: a dude who’s basically a weird human-shark hybrid going on and on about how human skin colors and sexual proclivities were not natural. Like there’s anything natural at all about rough skin and rows of teeth in a human mouth. Like there’s anything natural about being able to breathe in saltwater. 

But it took a long time for Daryl to call bullshit on what Merle thought and what Merle said. For years he shared his brother’s opinions, calling them his own: that black people ruined America, that gays were trying to take over and destroy traditional family values, that women were made to serve men. He doesn’t think he ever really believed any of that, it was more an attempt to fit in with the crowd his brother ran with, but he’s still ashamed of himself. 

Even though he’s changed so much since then, as evidenced by his friendships with Aaron, Eric and Jesus, he’s still ashamed of having been the kind of person who would’ve sneered and spit on himself and Rick holding hands. 

So he squeezes Rick’s fingers tighter, trying to pretend he doesn’t know he’s blushing. Sophia looks at him, at his and Rick’s joined hands, and smiles knowingly, completely unperturbed; Rick is the one who grins back at the girl, winking at her like she’s just become privy to some great secret. 

Then it’s their turn to get on the giant swing ride, and Rick and Daryl get separated: the bench seats fit two people and of course, the pups need to be paired up with their guardians. Rick sends Daryl a vaguely panicked look and Daryl waves at him, giving him a small smile filled with what reassurance he can offer this way. He really would’ve preferred to be on the ride with Rick, to be able to continue to hold his hand. He’ll have to take a closer look at all the future rides to veto those where they all couldn’t be together.

The ride isn’t even that extreme, honestly, just a fast spinning swing which makes for some centrifugal force and mild pressure changes. Sophia screams throughout the entire duration of the ride, but it’s happy screaming: Daryl knows how to tell. If she was really scared, she’d be cuddling against him, not throwing her hands up and letting the whole world hear her. It’s interesting to watch because Daryl can’t help but marvel at how humans are so illogical sometimes in how they behave. They love to terrify themselves, be it with monster stories or with high-adrenaline rides at amusement parks. Sharks are so much simpler.

Then again, that’s because sharks really don’t have the mental capacity to do things for fun.

“I’m never doing that again,” Rick informs everyone after the ride. He’s pale and vaguely shaky, and Daryl doesn’t even try to resist the urge to hold his hand again. He’s not prepared for the magnitude of Rick’s gratitude: the way the man looks at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his lips upturned into that wonderful smile, his hand warm against Daryl’s skin. It’s downright irresistible. 

“Are you my dad’s boyfriend?” Carl asks, squinting up at Daryl, no doubt measuring him up against some sort of mental image of what’s acceptable dating material for one’s parent.

Rick’s the one who replies: “Yes, he is,” he says, and smiles .

Carl looks from Daryl to the toy shark in his arms, then at Sophia, then at Rick and back at Daryl again. He seems to finally come to a conclusion, and nods. “I approve,” he announces resolutely. Then he smiles, too, and it’s so easy to see he’s his father’s son in that smile. He points towards the Ferris’ wheel. “Can we go there now?”

Daryl looks to Rick, who nods. “Sure, lil’ man,” he agrees easily, knowing he has Rick’s blessing.

“Ice-cream first, though,” Sophia reminds them slyly. 

They get ice-cream. Rick relents and lets Carl have two scoops, Sophia gets two as well, Rick takes one. Daryl doesn’t get ice-cream because he’s all too aware he needs to be keeping his teeth hidden, and anyway, he’s not over-fond of cold snacks. Unless he can have them at Carol’s place by the bucketful, half-melted and creamy, as he watches National Geographic on TV. 

He gave some ice-cream to Henry and Lydia once. They didn’t appreciate the flavor, but they didn’t hate the experience. Aaron used it as a focal point of a dissertation he wrote about taste buds of Great White sharks and how their dietary choices are affected by their inability to taste some specific flavors. While Daryl’s own taste buds are more similar to human norm, he also doesn’t actively go after sugary treats.

Except for chocolate of course. He loves chocolate.

“You sure you don’t want some?” Rick asks, pointing towards the ice-cream truck they’ve left behind. 

Daryl shrugs. “‘m fine,” he promises. 

Rick hums thoughtfully. “Would you like to try mine?” He offers. 

His scoop is Belgian Chocolate, and it smells wonderful. Daryl frowns, unsure of how to proceed. On the one hand, yeah, he wants to try Rick’s ice-cream. On the other, how does he do that without revealing the teeth? Again. 

But Rick doesn’t wait for an answer and lifts the scone in Daryl’s face, and left with no choice like that, Daryl sort of just kisses the tip of the ice-cream scoop without opening his mouth too wide. It works, and he then suckles on his lower lip to gather the taste. It’s even sweeter this way, for some reason, especially when Daryl notices Rick staring at his lips. 

“The Ferris’ wheel now!” Carl announces, and heads on to lead the rest of them towards the ride he chose. Rick follows, shaking his head, and Sophia stays a few steps back with Daryl.

“So, mom told me you were sweet on someone,” she says. “I like this guy, he’s nice. A bit old, but you’re old too, so that’s fine. And I guess he’s good looking.”

“Ya gotta point, squirt?” Daryl asks, swatting at Sophia’s hand when the girl tries to poke him. 

“I have point, and that point is, well done,” Sophia replies with a grin. “Though maybe don’t kiss your boyfriend in front of me? You know, same deal as with mom and Zeke. Old people kissing is gross.”

“Yet ya never mind when guys on movies kiss,” Daryl reminds her. 

Sophia rolls her eyes. “People on movies wear make-up so they don’t look old,” she explains patiently like she’s talking to someone particularly slow. “Also, none of them on movies are my parents, so. You know. It’s different.”

Daryl ruffles her hair playfully and laughs when Sophia squeals so loud, Rick and Carl turn back to check up on them. Catching up, Daryl continues to chuckle at Sophia’s indignation as the girl tries unsuccessfully to tame her hair which stick out in all directions from behind her headband. Carl offers to help and pats awkwardly at Sophia’s head, and Rick takes the opportunity to plant a very quick, almost-discreet kiss in the corner of Daryl’s mouth.

“You’re great with kids,” he whispers. Daryl doesn’t have the time to reply, though, because:

“Ewwww! Daryl, what did I tell you!” Sophia protests, making a face.

So the only thing Daryl can do is pick Sophia up by her arm and her leg, and swirl her around so fast she starts scream-laughing as she holds onto her toy shark for dear life. She sways a little on her feet when Daryl sets her down, so he pulls her into a quick hug for support. 

“Doncha get too annoyin’, Soph, or so help me, next time I’m droppin’ ya,” he warns jokingly. 

“Sure,” the girl replies somewhat breathlessly. “Can we go to the Ferris’ wheel now? And can Carl go with me? I want to show him where I live.”

The Ferris’ wheel age restriction happens to be quite low and it turns out Sophia can get on a ride alone with Carl. Unfortunately, the toy sharks have to stay, so Rick and Daryl bravely volunteer to take care of them while the pups have their fun. There’s a wooden table with benches around it nearby and they sit there to wait. Daryl takes a moment to closely examine Sophia’s shark toy, attempting to discern the species it’s supposed to imitate. It looks vaguely white shark-shaped, but the head is too round and the eyes are brown. Daryl doesn’t know if there are any brown-eyed sharks. Orcas can have brown eyes, he thinks; but not sharks. Maybe the toy was made by somebody who’s never met a shark before. Or it’s an orca in disguise. That’s possible, too.

Only after a moment of glaring suspiciously at the toy does he realize Rick’s been conspicuously silent. He looks up at the man and finds that Rick is watching him intently, like he’s trying to figure him out or something. He’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing.

“You know,” Rick says, now that he has Daryl’s attention. “I went ahead and searched the Internet for any sort of clues. It wasn’t easy, I’m bad as they come at using the Web, so maybe that’s why I found no results? Or I was looking for the wrong thing.”

“Wha’cha mean?” Daryl asks, frowning. It’s not what he was expecting to hear.

“Your teeth,” Rick says calmly. “I was wondering if it’s a disease or a mutation? Or maybe it’s just something you did to yourself for, you know, the cool factor?”

“You… saw my teeth,” Daryl mutters, and swears under his breath. 

Rick nods. “Well at first I only saw you chewing a chicken leg with bone like it’s pudding,” he amends, “but then I looked closely and yeah. I saw your teeth. They’re pointy, aren’t they?”

“Not exactly,” Daryl replies and sighs. “It ain’t something I done, okay? And it ain’t a disease. But ‘s not the best place to talk ‘bout shit like that.”

“I can come meet you tomorrow night,” Rick offers. “After I drop Carl off to the airport. His grandparents are coming to get him,” he explains.

Daryl nods. “Okay,” he agrees. It’s strange; he’s feels like he should be panicking, but he’s not. He’s strangely peaceful about the fact Rick saw. Maybe it’s because Rick himself doesn’t seem exactly spooked. He appears to be intrigued, if anything. He’s definitely not running away. 

“Just so we’re clear, whatever it is that’s made your teeth like that, I don’t mind,” the man assures quickly. He chuckles. “Though I admit it made me a bit nervous at first. Those bones were hard, man…”

“Ain’t felt that way,” Daryl supplies sheepishly. 

Rick nods and touches his hand. “Anyway, I’m not nervous anymore. I meant what I told Carl. I’ve been mentally calling you my boyfriend since that first date.”

“So for the last like, three days?” Daryl asks - and grins, not as wide as he normally would in front of trusted friends, but still wider than he’d ever dare with a stranger. It shows enough of his teeth that it’s clear they’re not normal, but if Rick wants to examine them closely, he’s going to have to wait until they’re not in public. 

“Shut up,” Rick scoffs playfully and swats him on the shoulder. But then, more seriously, he adds: “I’m going to kiss you now, if it’s okay with you.”

“Don’t gotta ask,” Daryl says firmly.

Rick smiles, and leans in - and kisses him, all soft and gentle, and he doesn’t make any attempt to push his tongue into Daryl’s mouth or anything like that. No, the kiss remains somewhat chaste, lips on lips, with their hands entwined and their thighs touching. Eventually, however, Rick draws back and licks his lips.

“Daaaaaaaaaaad,” Carl whines, approaching, and Daryl didn’t expect the pups to be back so soon. He supposes he should have; the rides aren’t really that long after all.

“I told you, adults are gross,” Sophia tells the boy and reaches for her shark toy. 

Just to spite them, Daryl quickly kisses Rick again, just a peck, really, but apparently enough to weird them out. Then, to make it up to them, he and Rick take the pups to one final ride of their choosing before it’s time to call it a day.

And when they say goodbyes after that, Rick squeezes Daryl’s fingers and leans in to whisper, “Tomorrow, I’ll come by at nine. Will you wait for me?”

Daryl breathes, “Yeah,” and closes his eyes, instinctually awaiting another kiss. Which he doesn’t get, and when he opens his eyes, Rick and Carl are already a few feet away and Sophia is smirking at him. It’s okay though. He only needs to wait a day. 

It’s not like anything bad can happen in one day.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the patience, everyone! The story is taking some turns I didn't expect it to, and to be honest, it fights me a lot. Not to worry, I think I know how to wrangle it back to its set path.

As it turns out, there are at least a couple of bad things that can happen in one day.

Daryl is woken up at six thirty by a frantic knock on his door. He answers groggily, only to be greeted by a rather scared-looking Carol who says:

“Something’s wrong. With the sharks.”

-to which Daryl quickly pulls on a pair of pants and grabs a t-shirt which he puts on while running. Carol leads him to the feeding pool on the north-eastern end of the Biter tank which is closest to where Henry and Lydia were seen last. Everyone’s already there: Professor King, solemn and serious, and Aaron, pale and wide-eyed, and Jesus, biting his lips and searching for answers in his tablet, and about a dozen other people who Daryl has no time to greet.

“What’s wrong?” He asks quickly.

“Lydia bit Henry,” Eric explains, “but we think it wasn’t a mating bite. He’s bleeding profusely, and the courting was interrupted-”

“I’m goin’ in,” Daryl says, and looks at Professor King for his assent. 

The man exhales a long breath and nods. “I hate to be asking you to do this,” he says gravely, “but we have no choice. Henry needs immediate medical attention. The bite was unfortunate, his first dorsal fin is almost torn off. It severely incapacitated his ability to swim. He’s going to suffocate if nothing is done.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” Daryl assures him. “Got any visual? Need to see the damage.”

Jesus hands him his tablet which displays the video feed from one of the drones. Henry is visible there, floating feebly just above the bottom of the tank, and just like Professor King said, his dorsal fin is mostly gone. Daryl swears under his breath.

“We need Denise, she gotta be on standby,” he says. 

Someone goes to fetch the doctor while the others look at Daryl. He feels weird under the scrutiny, especially when Carol fetches his bodysuit so he can get changed. He’s never been ashamed to get naked in front of people before, but right now, when he’s being stared at, it feels incredibly uncomfortable. At least his friends are there to form a barrier between Daryl and the people who don’t know his secret yet. It’s about to change, he’s sure; there’s no way they can send all these people away without arousing suspicion, and anyway, everyone’s already aware that Daryl’s about to dive with the sharks. 

“Hair’s gonna get in the way,” he mutters, and Jesus hands him a hair tie. Daryl nods thankfully, gets his hair under control and looks very closely at the tablet’s display. The camera doesn’t capture much of the area too well, but he’s quite sure he can see Lydia’s immense silhouette looming in the background. Which means she’s hanging around, and that - that’s a good sign, actually. A sign that it was really an accident, not an attack. So the situation is salvageable and there can still be shark babies in the outcome.

As long as he saves Henry.

“We gonna need a replacement fin,” he announces, “a temporary one will cut it for now. Gotta be a strong material, but flexible, like, like... “

“A swimming flipper,” says Denise Cloyd, approaching. She looks tired and the look she gives Daryl is wary, but she’s there, and Daryl appreciates it all the same. There’s a flurry of movement as two of Professor King’s undergrads run to the souvenir shop to procure a pair of flippers. Daryl thinks Henry’s gonna look ridiculous with his dorsal fin replaced by a piece of flexible plastic with the Alexandria Institute logo printed in the middle, but it’s a good idea all the same. Of the life-saving kind. He says as much to Denise.

“Finding a flipper wasn’t a problem, but getting it to stick will be,” the woman warns. “Will you be able to sew it on?”

“If he don’t thrash much,” Daryl replies, inclining his head in confirmation.

“Then better use epoxy, it’ll work short-term, before we come up with a better solution,” Denise advices, and hands him a can of the adhesive and a fanny pack he can secure at his waist so his limbs are free to move. “It’s already mixed, so you have to work fast. I grabbed it from Tara’s workshop, so you better replace it later, okay?”

Daryl blinks, then remembers that Denise lives with Tara Chambler, the ocean floor architext. They’re mates, if he’s not mistaken. So it makes sense Denise has access to Tara’s stuff. Useful stuff, as it turns out. 

“Thanks,” he mutters. 

Denise rolls her eyes and pats her on the arm. “Just go and save that shark,” she demands, and Daryl promises to do his best. The undergrads return with the flippers and a portable laser cutter they use to cut the flippers into the desired shape. Somebody provides a length of fishing line which Daryl uses to secure the new fin pieces to his sides so they don’t give him trouble, and someone else hands him a knife and a convenient sheath he can fasten around his thigh for easy access. Just in case. He’s pretty sure he won’t need it for protection, but it might be useful if he needs to adjust the size of the flippers.

With one final glance at everyone, he moves into position and finally dives into the pool.

The water tastes and smells very vaguely coppery. The bittersweet tang of blood makes Daryl’s nostrils flare, and he finds that it makes it somewhat easier than usual to readjust to breathing underwater. It also makes him hungry, but it’s just a fleeting thought. There’s movement in the water beneath him, he can feel it in the receptors alongside his spine, and he heads towards where he can detect the impulses. He can sort of sense the drone with the camera observing his descent, but he ignores it because he can’t afford to lose concentration when each minute counts. 

Lydia is patrolling the spot where Henry has sunk. Her great form is magnificent as always, but it doesn’t take a biologist to notice the tension in her muscles, the anxiety she’s exhibiting almost tangible. She’s circling around one location, like she’s stalking prey, but Daryl knows that’s not what she’s doing. She’s on high alert as soon as Daryl draws near, ready to pounce on anything that might threaten her mate. The pheromones in the water are unmistakable, even to someone as ignorant in these matters as Daryl, there’s no doubt that Lydia already considers Henry her mate even though the actual mating act hasn’t happened yet. 

“Easy, girl,” Daryl mutters, and the vibration of his voice in the water is familiar enough to the female shark because immediately, she relaxes and pushes her nose into the welcome embrace of Daryl’s comparatively puny human arms. Like she knows he’s here to help, Lydia seeks comfort in Daryl’s touch, and it’s amazing to have this kind of trust from a beast as powerful and as wondrous as a Great White shark. 

It’s not that Henry completely stopped moving. His whole body is attempting to compensate for the missing dorsal fin that helped him keep afloat, and it’s more-or-less successful. He sort of crawls low above the sandy bottom of the tank, which allows his gills to filter water in a slowed but somehow sufficient attempt to breathe. From up close, Daryl can see that the damage is less severe than they all thought. While the first dorsal fin is badly torn, the base seems okay and it looks like no piece of the fin is missing. From Daryl’s experience, damage like this can heal over time if the shark in question survives. 

Obviously, he’s here to make sure Henry survives. Sewing the fin together would be best, he can see that now, but it’s not something doable down here in the deep, especially not with Henry’s frantic movements he does to keep himself alive. The epoxy glue will have to do. Daryl retrieves the can from the fanny pack and approaches the shark.

He hums a little melody that he’s been using to identify himself to Henry and Lydia since the beginning of their acquaintance. The male shark’s eyes follow him as Daryl circles above and then takes hold of the dorsal fin by the rear tip. The most damage is above the spine, cutting through the anterior margin of the fin and across its side towards the rear. The bite was clearly accidental; if Daryl were to hazard a guess, he’d say Lydia was trying to grab hold of the erogenous area between the two dorsal fins, but she miscalculated and her teeth caught on the fin. She just doesn’t realize her size sometimes, which happens with the largest females of the species sometimes. Daryl remembers a story Professor King told him about a great twenty-foot female rescued off the coast of Bali a few years ago; apparently, the shark misjudged the distances while chasing a colony of fish and got stuck in an underwater cave that proved too tight for her to swim through. 

They’re just not great mathematicians, the sharks.

Carefully, Daryl adjusts the floppy fragment of the fin and then applies a generous scoop of the epoxy glue which he spreads in a thick layer on both sides of the fin, down at the base and up at the tip, steering clear of the damaged tissue. The paste catches nicely on the teeth on the shark’s skin and Daryl quickly retrieves the pieces of flippers. He presses them to the fin on both sides to serve as a sort of cast. 

_ Here ya go, _ he thinks. Almost immediately after the makeshift dressing is applied, Henry stops thrashing to fight to keep his body upright. It can’t be comfortable, this emergency patch-up job, but at least it seems to have worked: without any further ado, Henry is able to lift himself off the bottom of the tank and glide slowly in a wide circle. He doesn’t attempt to throw Daryl off as he swims, which is a good thing because Daryl is still pressing the flippers to his fin, waiting for the glue to cure. If he recalls correctly, the marine epoxy requires about two hours to fully cure, so he’s really stuck down here with the sharks for some time.

It’s alright. He missed them over the last couple of days when he wasn’t allowed to swim with them, and anyway, it doesn’t look like Lydia or Henry are very hostile this time. In fact, if he didn’t know they were just in the middle of a mating dance, he wouldn’t have noticed any difference in their behavior from before. 

_ Safe, _ he signs to Lydia, making sure to use the one-handed gesture she understands. The shark swims closer and snaps her jaws in a manner which clearly conveys a _ thank you, _just like Daryl taught his shark friends earlier. And then she does something Daryl’s never seen a shark do before, Great White or any other species: she goes hunting and then brings the prey - tuna, which Daryl guesses was dropped down by the team on the surface as soon as they saw the operation succeeded - Lydia brings the big piece of tuna to them and drops it right in front of Henry’s open mouth. 

She _ feeds him. _Defying everything Daryl’s ever known about any shark species, Lydia goes and returns many more times over the course of the next two hours, each time carrying more meat which she then lets Henry have. It’s incredible. Astounding, even, because there’s not supposed to be a nurturing instinct in white sharks. They don’t care for their young after they’re born, they sure as shit don’t form bonds outside of the mating season, and they’re generally considered to be selfish eaters. After all, they don’t consider it tactless to eat each other in some situations. 

But Lydia apparently doesn’t care much about human considerations. 

After a bit more than two hours, Daryl finally releases Henry’s dorsal fin and is relieved to see the makeshift cast stays in place. The solution isn’t permanent, he’s quite sure it won’t even be enough to last the entire recuperation period, but it’s good enough for the time being. Daryl has no doubt Professor King and his staff are already coming up with something better to assist the shark’s healing. Something that won’t restrict his movements like the flippers; it’s clear at first sight that Henry isn’t capable of making sharp turns and swimming at his full speed with his handicap. 

_ Sorry, _ Daryl signs at him and the shark blinks at him. He’s neither angry nor confused. He’s just a shark, and he does what sharks do: he bumps his nose against Daryl’s side, and he eats the offerings Lydia brings him from time to time. Then he swims towards Lydia and buries his teeth in her underside. Without paying further mind to Daryl’s presence, he mounts Lydia, fully intent of using the opportunity now that the female doesn’t fight him.

Daryl blinks, and when he registers what’s happening, he rolls his eyes and swims away. Not only would staying feel like intruding, he’s sure the rise in hormone levels will cause hostile actions if he remains within the shark space for too long. After all, his own hormones are triggering, too, so he has to make himself scarce.

The water feels so nice, but Daryl hastily swims towards the feeding pool he started out from. He comes out of the water, assisted by some hands helping him stand as he heaves, his body making the necessary transformation to breathe surface air again. There are voices, familiar and happy-sounding, and many people come pat Daryl on the back, congratulating him on a job well done.

“Got food?” He asks when his throat no longer constricts around gulps of air, and almost everybody laughs in response.

Carol beams up at him. “Sure. There’s a giant breakfast waiting for you,” she says. Professor King, who normally doesn’t let personal matters intersect with his job, has an arm around Carol’s waist, and Daryl thinks they look good together. They also smell good. Some human couples are ill-suited to each other in terms of their smells: their respective scents combine into something unpleasant, sometimes pungent, other times just revolting in a nonspecific manner. But Professor King and Carol, they make a good combination in this aspect. 

“You did something extraordinary for us today,” Professor King tells him. 

“Wasn’t nothin’,” Daryl protests. The job didn’t turn out to be half as dangerous as he expected, and anyway, someone had to have done it. He was just the most natural choice. 

“It was everything,” Aaron says, adamant. He puts a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. “Without you, Henry would’ve died. The Institute owes you for this.”

“Come on, it’s time to feed you,” Carol announces, pulling Daryl along before the atmosphere becomes too awkward for him. As they’re leaving, Professor King is explaining to everyone how the news of what events transpired this morning cannot leave the walls of the Institute. 

It seems that Daryl’s secret is out, and it makes him a little worried.

“Don’t fret,” Carol tells him in the cafeteria, right before she sets a full tray of raw chicken legs in front of him. It looks like a whole day’s supply of meat, but Carol doesn’t seem too bothered when Daryl begins to devour the pieces like a starving shark. 

She smiles, instead. “Nobody is going to say anything,” she assures. “I know you think of the sharks as your friends or family, but those people who saw you today? To them, Lydia and Henry are priceless assets. You saw who was there. Undergraduates who think they’re lucky to be working in the only place in the world which managed to keep Great Whites for an extended period, in good condition. Staff members who devoted their entire careers to the research of white shark mating habits. If you hadn’t gone in the water today, they would’ve lost an irreplaceable resource. Believe me, they won’t go talking to anyone about your surplus teeth.”

Which reminds Daryl, he’s got a date with Rick that evening. He smiles before devouring another piece of chicken. Rick didn’t get scared off by his teeth. He doesn’t understand what Daryl is, not yet, but he’s not terrified. That means there’s a good chance everything between them will work out. After all, Rick didn’t mind holding Daryl’s hand in front of his son for the entire day at the amusement park. 

It’s gotta mean something.

“What are you smiling about?” Carol asks, narrowing her eyes to look at him.

Daryl swallows the meat and replies, “Nothin’,” which is a lie so obvious, normally Carol would never let it slide. 

Today’s not normal, it seems. 

“Okay, keep your secrets,” the woman tells him, then sits down across from him at the table with her own breakfast - waffles with strawberry sauce. “By the way, Sophia approves of your boyfriend,” she adds after she’s had a few mouthfuls of food.

“Good,” Daryl says, and finishes the last chicken leg. 

“Just _ good? _You’re not going to explain how she met him?” Carol inquires with a raised eyebrow.

Daryl licks his fingers, taking a moment to consider if he’s in a sharing mood. Finally, he nods and says, “‘twas a coincidence. He was at the amusement park with his son. We sorta decided to hang out together.”

He tells Carol about the Saturday spent together with Rick and Carl, and he even explains about the date he’s got planned for later today. Through it all, Carol listens, and it’s not difficult to see from her expression that she, too, approves of Daryl’s new relationship.

“You seem so happy when you talk about him,” she explains when Daryl points that out. “If he makes you happy, then I can’t really disapprove, can I?”

They chat for a while longer before Carol decides she’s got some work to do on her paper. Left with a lot of time to do shit, but no shit to actually do right now, Daryl returns to his room and gets dressed, then goes out to town. The plan is to drop by the closest bookstore, buy Rick’s books and go back, which he accomplishes in a timely manner. At least with the second book. The first one, _ This Sorrowful Life, _he finds on the bargain shelf, hidden behind a romance novel and something with a very sparkly cover. It’s a signed copy. Daryl smiles to himself as he pockets it after paying.

On his way back, he meets a vaguely familiar man in front of the Institute. It takes him a moment to remember where he’s seen him before: it’s the well-dressed businessman dude who helped clean up at the beach that one time. He’s still very smartly dressed and he’s wearing sunglasses even though the day is rather cloudy. The smell of his cologne is just as harsh on Daryl’s nose as it was that morning on the beach. The man is talking on the phone, but when he notices Daryl walking past, he acknowledges him with a nod of his head.

Daryl nods back, wondering why the simple gesture towards him made all the hairs on his body stand.

He returns to his apartment and retrieves his glasses before he walks out to the enclosure with the beach that belongs to the Institute. He removes his shoes and rolls up the legs of his jeans so he can put his feet in the water as he sits at the edge of the pier. For a moment, he hesitates, remembering how his last foray into the ocean almost ended, but he supposes the threat here is minor. It’s not so deep that a killer whale could go unnoticed, and the water is clear, so he’ll see if anything suspicious swims towards him. 

With that resolve, Daryl takes out the book - the first one, the _ more personal one _\- and he begins to read. 

It’s some time later when he hears voices. He ignores them at first, too immersed in the story to care about background noises, but when they draw nearer, they become impossible to miss. Because he’s on the edge of the jetty, hidden from sight by the docked boat, the talking - arguing? - people don’t see him as they approach. Daryl recognizes the voices easily as Aaron and Jesus, and he frowns because they both smell agitated and sad and scared.

This can’t be about the sharks, right? Everything went great with Henry and Lydia. Somebody would’ve told him otherwise.

A little worried, but with his curiosity picked, Daryl listens in.

Aaron says: “This was a mistake, okay? Just one time, and it won’t have a repeat. It can’t have a repeat. Are we clear?”

“You said you’d wanted me forever, though,” Jesus protests, and Daryl frowns. 

“I was drunk,” Aaron snaps. “I didn’t want you. I probably thought you were Eric. I love Eric. He’s my everything. So let’s just never speak of this again-”

Jesus chuckles bitterly. “You’re a fucking coward, man,” he says. “Sure, tell yourself your lies. Truth is, you cheated on your boyfriend because you’re bored of your vanilla relationship. You said so yourself. Drunk or not, at one point, you said it.”

“Who cares what I said,” Aaron replies. “Paul, this- this thing, what happened between us, you’ve got to forget about it. You’re cool, you’re a good dude, but-”

“But what? You’re not interested?” Jesus asks, and Daryl hears Aaron’s sharp intake of breath before there’s a wet sort of noise followed by a soft, deep moan. A moment later, Jesus mutters, “That’s how _ not interested _ you are,” and Daryl can smell it: guilt, regret, _ overwhelming desire. _

Aaron wants, and he hates that he wants, and- and- what about Eric? Weren’t they mated, weren’t they absolutely devoted to each other? Daryl’s so confused right now, he doesn’t know what to do. Suddenly, he wishes he wasn’t so well-hidden in his spot. Maybe the two wouldn’t be talking like this if they knew they had a witness.

“Don’t worry,” Jesus says after a brief moment of silence. “I won’t tell Eric. He’s my… he’s my friend, though I sure as _ fuck _don’t feel like a good friend right now,” he sighs. “But you’ve got to get a grip, man. Can you tell me right now, with absolute certainty, can you look me in the eye and say you’re never gonna do it again? With me, with someone else, no matter. Can you promise that?”

“I… I don’t know,” Aaron says, and Daryl frowns even harder at the hesitation in the man’s voice. “Fuck, Paul. This isn’t something I wanted, okay? If only you never came along-”

“No, don’t make this out to be my fault,” Jesus warns. “I never asked for this either-”

Daryl doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, if there is any at all, because all of a sudden, something pulls on his leg. He curses and flails, and the book falls out of his hands into the water, and it startles whatever it is that was holding him into letting go. Daryl gets to his feet and backs away from the edge of the pier, staring into the abyss like he’s expecting something to jump out after him. Nothing does, and the surface looks undisturbed, like there was never anything there to begin with. 

Daryl lets out a long sigh, feeling the tension leaving him in waves. Did he make it up? Was there really something in there, or did a random fish brush against his ankle, triggering his brain into an overblown panic? 

“Fuck this,” he mutters, a pang of regret hitting him at the loss of Rick’s book. He’s going to have to return to that bookshop later. Maybe there were more copies. 

“Daryl?” Aaron calls from some distance away. Ah. Shit. Daryl almost forgot about _ this _part. 

“Are you okay?” Jesus asks, coming closer. He looks very tired, Daryl notes. Much more tired than he was this morning. And he smells tired, too. 

“Dropped a book,” Daryl grumbles, and he looks at Jesus, then at Aaron. “I heard ya,” he announces, because he doesn’t think it’s something he should - or could - hide. “Dunno exactly what’s all been about, but ya guys better get yer shit together.”

“Daryl,” Jesus begins, but Daryl lifts a hand to stop him.

“No explanations,” he says. “From either of ya. Seen ‘nuff chick flicks to know what cheatin’ is, okay? And I know ‘s wrong. So y’all get it sorted out one way or another. Before someone gets hurt.”

He doesn’t wait for their replies before he turns back to leave. He thinks about poor, oblivious Eric who wanted his help proposing to Aaron. It makes him feel awful. He hates that he knows about this, that he’s probably supposed to be keeping it a secret. It’s almost like he’s just as guilty as Aaron and Jesus. It’s so stupid. Humans are so stupid. Why would they ruin a good thing like that? Weren’t Aaron and Eric to be perfect together?

Then it hits him: What if Rick and his wife were perfect together, too? And Daryl’s just like Jesus in this scenario. The reason something good is ruined irrevocably, something so good that it produced an amazing pup like Carl Grimes. Yeah, Rick said their divorce was almost a done deal, but maybe if Daryl didn’t come along, they would’ve found their way back to each other. 

Mood soured, Daryl shuts himself in his tiny apartment and stays there for the entire night. His phone flashes a few times with new text messages, but ignores it, turns around to stare at the wall. His excitement to see Rick from before is completely gone. To be honest, doesn’t think he wants to see Rick ever again. 

So, yeah. Enough bad things can happen in just one day to make it absolutely fucking _ suck. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, the treatment Daryl used on Henry is completely fictional and probably very unrealistic. Oh well.


	16. Chapter 16

Daryl starts to hate the confining space of his tiny apartment about two hours after he shuts himself inside. He’s never been claustrophobic before, not like Great White sharks are, but today he feels like the four walls are closing in on him, squeezing the life out of him, threatening to swallow him whole. The same sense of dread from before fills him now, like he’s being circled by some terrifying unknown predator he’s got no way of measuring up against. How does he fight this? How does he start trusting people again after his friends proved to be cheating, lying assholes?… 

This sucks so bad.

His phone rings again, and Daryl sighs. He’s pretty sure it’s Rick. The man’s proving to be real damn stubborn, but so is Daryl, and he’s not in the mood to deal with it tonight. It’s not Rick’s fault. None of it is. If anyone’s to blame for any of this, it’s probably Aaron for doing stupid shit while drunk. Also Jesus for reciprocating. Dumb fucks. 

The thing is, Daryl doesn’t think he’s reacting this strongly just because his friends disappointed him. He’s used to being disappointed, to be honest, even though the last ten years of his life had been dreamily devoid of any of that. But before? Disappointment is like an integral part of having Merle Dixon for an older brother. Daryl’s only lifeline, his only protector in the time when he was too young to defend himself from his daddy’s fists… a mean drunk, addicted to drugs, spiteful, dangerous. He was prone to hurt Daryl just as well as save him, and it was always so out of the blue. No matter how many times Merle promised he’d get clean, it just never happened. 

Daryl should’ve learned to stop expecting shit out of people long ago. He’s just so damn naive. Like a little kid. 

But it’s not why he’s feeling like this, and he knows it. He’s restless. He wants to swim, but can’t. He wants to do many things. His skin is tingling. He needs, well,  _ something.  _

Rick. He needs Rick.

And yet he ignores the phone. He can’t see Rick right now. He’s hurt, emotionally, mentally, something, it’s making him irrational. He might do something bad. Something he wouldn’t be able to take back. He might hurt Rick, he might bite him, break his soft, fragile human flesh. He might, with his monstrous teeth that Rick said he didn’t mind. Stupid, stupid human Rick, with his blue eyes and pretty smile, and his big hands and-

Daryl groans and stares at the ceiling above his bed. He’s aroused, almost painfully so, and it’s so weird to be like this right now, but he can’t help it. It happens to him almost every time he thinks about everything in Rick that he likes: his dangling bits get all funny with the blood rushing down there, and he feels like if he doesn’t touch himself, he’ll go crazy. But it’s inappropriate isn’t it, to touch himself when he’s feeling all frustrated and angry and sad all at once-

“Fuck this,” he mutters and undoes his jeans. He can’t see Rick, not tonight, not in this state of mind, but that doesn’t mean he can’t  _ think about him,  _ right? So he does. He wraps his hand around the long bit - his penis, his, cock? He needs to start naming it proper - and he closes his eyes. Like this, it becomes so easy to picture Rick there with him, lying on his side next to Daryl, his shirt unbuttoned, his pupils blown wide in desire perfectly mirroring Daryl’s own. His hand in place of Daryl’s, stroking hurriedly, drawing out little gasps and groans out of Daryl’s mouth, maybe kissing him…

What would it be like to be kissed, now that the secret about his teeth is out? Daryl lifts his free hand to his face and presses the pads of his fingertips to his lower lip, gently, trying to imitate what all of Rick’s chaste little kisses felt like. He imagines Rick doing it - not with his fingers, but with his lips, kissing Daryl, so soft and nice, respectful of Daryl’s boundaries, not even once trying to push for something more when he knew Daryl wasn’t ready for it… but what if he pushed? What if he tried to deepen the kiss, felt the edges of Daryl’s teeth with his tongue? One wrong move, one misstep, and both their mouths would fill with the metallic taste of blood, and Rick would exhale against Daryl’s lips, and stroke him faster, and he’d bite on Daryl’s lower lip to draw blood, too, and- and-

“Fuck,  _ Rick, _ ” Daryl whimpers, and his whole body sort of shudders, overwhelmed by a wave of relief and pleasure, mixed together, so strong and wonderful and intense, for a brief moment, nothing else matters but Rick, his touch, his smell, his  _ everything. _

And then it passes, leaving Daryl wrung out and yet still restless, still unable to find peace.

What he wouldn’t give to just go to the Biter Tank, to swim with Lydia and Henry, forgetting all of his problems until they went away. But he can’t do that, either. After what happened in the morning, he’s pretty sure the Great Whites are very busy producing lots of toothy babies together, and the only thing he could be for them right now is a third wheel… or possibly a snack. Which he doesn’t want to become, really. The ocean’s out of the picture, too, with whatever it is that’s lurking in there. An orca. But not. 

How would it know to target him specifically? It. Him, her. A person who’s like Daryl, but not exactly, because it’s not a shark. And yet. A killer whale. A shark killer! Somebody out there, somebody who somehow knows what Daryl is, somebody hunting him in the water where Daryl’s physiology is most shark-like, which makes his liver most tempting by orca standards. Does that person, that  _ monster, _ does it stalk him on land, too, does it follow him and observe him and lurk, and wait, biding its time, waiting to strike… precise, deadly, to eat the most nutritious part of him, leaving him to die a slow painful death in the red, blood-stained water?

Who is it? Who the fuck  _ is it? _

Can’t be anyone at the Institute, Daryl decides. He’d know. He’d recognize another creature like him, if not by the looks, then at least by the lingering scent of the ocean. He smells it sometimes on surfers, the salty tang of the wind and the slight sourness of the organic life in the waters, and things that humans can’t possibly even realize could be smelled. The orca, whoever it is, would obviously carry that smell on themselves in the absence of any regular body odour. Like Daryl does. 

It’s useless, thinking about it. The point is, Daryl can’t go back in the ocean. Not tonight, not next week. Maybe never. Where there’s one orca, a pod is sure to follow, and they’re malicious creatures, hunting sharks for the fun as much as for the food. 

So no ocean. No Biter Tank, either. But Daryl needs to swim. The relaxed, fulfilled feeling that came from his orgasm has already completely faded, replaced by that same restlessness from before, the walls bearing down on him, trapping him in the tiny apartment like a cod in a fisherman’s net. He needs to truly breathe again, and he can only really breathe in saltwater. Air on land sustains him, but it’s like slowly suffocating most of the time. All of the time. If he doesn’t swim, he’ll die.

_ The diving tank,  _ he remembers. It’s not ideal, of course. The water inside is murky, a warm blend of saltwater and freshwater, a special damn mix for the benefit of the current inhabitant. Joe the mean bull shark might not be the nicest co-swimmer, but he’s a different species altogether, so it’s not likely he’s going to be affected by Daryl’s hormonal spikes. It’s a great opportunity to finally get to know him, learn if he’s manageable at all. Eric would be glad, he’s been talking about some research on the behavioral patterns of sharks who have eaten humans before, centered around the  _ rogue shark  _ myth so that he could debunk it once and for all. Joe would be a great test subject. Especially if he could be convinced to swim with humans, even just cage divers at first. 

“Guess I got a date tonight,” Daryl mutters to himself. 

He gathers his shit: the diving suit, the dried meat treats he made specifically for the occasion, the little radio transmitter he can use to call for help if things go badly. He probably should take a knife with him as well, but to hell with it: if the old bull shark decides to attack him, Daryl’s not going to be able to defend himself with a meager blade. The transmitter and his own agility will have to do. They’ve never failed him before, so he’s quite confident it’s gonna be fine tonight, too.

He leaves his phone on the bed because he’s got no use for it in the water, but he does take a last peek at it before leaving, and bites his thumb when he sees it’s Rick calling again. He’s tempted for a moment to take it, just so he can hear Rick’s voice saying his name. Maybe he could tell Rick where he’s going, and Rick would encourage him, tell him to kick that mean bull shark’s ass. Although sharks don’t precisely have asses. But Rick probably doesn’t know that. He’s no expert on sharks. He’s just a silly, silly man who thinks he can sell a monster story about sharks without making the public hate them even more. He’s just so damn talented. His book, that first book of his,  _ This Sorrowful Life.  _ Daryl doesn’t know much about literature. He only knows what he likes, what he enjoys, and he really enjoyed that book a lot. He couldn’t really tell what it was about. A cop, yeah, and his life with a bored wife and a little pup in a small town. His most engaging case at work involved a redneck hunter who didn’t have much care for hunting seasons and kept getting caught for it. They had this interesting friendship thing going on when the cop wasn’t arresting the redneck, and it was just… nice. Daryl wouldn’t mind reading how the story ended. 

He’s going to have to buy another copy of that book, because the damn orca stole his. 

“Damn you, Rick,” he grumbles, and grabs the phone. He doesn’t answer until it stops ringing, but he goes to the text message inbox and, without reading any of Rick’s texts, types a short message of his own:  _ Sorry. Gotta go tend to some sharks. Ill call you tomorrow and explain. Dont be angry. _

And then he heads out to the tank. 

For the divers’ safety, the entrance to the diving tank is located at the second storey of the aquarium, completely inaccessible to the visitors. In fact, it’s only open to people withe the correct access code. Fortunately, that group includes Daryl. The room he enters looks something like a swimming pool in a hotel or something, all tiled and shit, with ladders and jump posts. Daryl doesn’t bother with climbing down like a kid only learning to swim; he gets dressed in the bodysuit and jumps in, then swims about in the clear water until his body undergoes the transformation. 

Then he swims down. The second level is visible from the visitor part of the aquarium. The bull shark rarely goes there. It prefers to lurk in the lowest level, dark and muddy as it is, where he can hunt for his prey without being seen. 

Daryl swims towards where he can vaguely sense the presence of a big shark. Joe is less than eight feet, just over two hundred-fifty pounds, so he’s not very impressive in comparison to Lydia or even Henry, but Daryl is wary of him all the same. He’s not about to underestimate a man-eating shark just because it’s smaller than he’s used to, and even though he doesn’t believe a well-fed shark would actively try to hunt him, he’s not going to get careless. After all, every shark he’s ever met was an opportunistic eater, including himself; and if there’s prey willingly swimming into his territory, Joe likely won’t stop to consider his impromptu dinner’s species. 

Daryl throws a few of the meat treats he brought along into the murky water below. He’s not sure where the bull shark is, exactly, but he’s relatively certain he can draw it out of its cover with the treats. He thinks he can see a shadow in the relative darkness below, and he swims slowly towards it, letting out a few calming sounds, humming something like a soft melody. The water vibrates and that’s what finally compels Joe to move out of his hiding spot.

The shark is almost exactly like Daryl imagined it, except it’s much lighter than he expected from a bull shark. Normally, bull sharks are gray on the top, white on the belly side, but this one is almost entirely white, or maybe just a very light shade of gray - it’s difficult to tell for sure in the dark. There are many scars on the shark, but that’s normal, especially for an old one like Joe. He’s really good-looking in his own way, with his stout posture and short snout. There aren’t any deformities Daryl can see at this first look, no missing fins, nothing weird at all. 

_ Ain’cha an ugly fucker,  _ Daryl thinks, smirking. The shark swims up towards him in a circling pattern, like he’s stalking prey. It shouldn’t be amusing, it should be terrifying, because there’s a predator quite a bit larger than Daryl who’s very obviously going to attempt to eat him - but there’s nothing. No fear, nothing like that. In fact, Daryl thinks, in comparison to the orca out in the ocean, this bull shark is… funny. Dumb old boy, trying to hunt something much smarter and much faster than him. He’s gonna eat his own teeth before he can ever get to Daryl.

_ Catch me if you can,  _ Daryl thinks, and he swims a distance away, leaving a trail of treats along the way. Like bait. 

And the chase is on.

It’s like playing at a submarine playground. The bull shark follows Daryl in short bursts of speed, but even at his fastest, he’s not capable of matching Daryl’s pace. While Great White sharks are capable of going up to thirty miles per hour, bull sharks can barely reach half of that speed. Daryl isn’t a shark, not truly, but he can easily outswim a bull regardless. So that’s what he does. He’s got the intention to tire Joe out before he tries to communicate with the shark. It’s a good technique, one he employed successfully with other sharks. Joe might be mean and experienced at hunting humans - and yeah, Daryl can tell for sure, Joe has actually hunted humans before. He’s like the embodiment of the horror stories that make it out to the public. 

For Daryl, swimming with Joe is good fun… but humans? They wouldn’t stand a chance against him, with their clumsiness in the water, and their good-natured belief that the marine life only waits for them to study it without ever meaning them any harm. 

Rogue sharks don’t exist; but in this case, it’s opportunity that would make Joe eat any human that crossed his path. Daryl will have to report that to the staff later-

_ Wait. What’s that sound?  _

Water is a great conductor for all sorts of sounds. They get distorted as they travel and become nearly indistinguishable to humans, but to Daryl, they’re as clear as they are on land. He hears footsteps on the tiles in the diving tank room. Only one set. Nobody was scheduled to come diving tonight, that’s for sure: there isn’t anyone who’d do something so stupid without first making sure the shark was safe to be around. Joe’s meal times are programmed into automatic feeders located at the bottom of the tank; he’s fed live prey, mostly trout and squid-things, which get released from small adjoining tanks into the main tank at regular intervals throughout the day cycle. There’s literally no reason for anyone to be up there at this hour at night. 

Curious, Daryl decides to investigate. He throws the remaining meat treats right in front of Joe’s jaws to distract him for a moment, and he swims up towards the surface. It only takes a moment before he breaks the surface and takes a deep breath of the land air which burns his lungs for a few seconds. It’s easier, somewhat, getting used to it out of freshwater than it is when he leaves saltwater; like his body knows it’s not really his  _ home  _ he’s leaving behind. Once he’s back to being a land creature, he wipes his face with the backs of his hands and swims towards the edge of the pool where he thinks he heard the footsteps. 

And right there, standing next to the pile of his clothes, is Rick, his face a picture of confusion.

“Daryl,” he breathes, noticing him. “What are you doing here?”

“Coulda asked ya the same,” Daryl replies, frowning. “How’d ya get in? Institute’s closed for visitors-”

But Rick’s not really listening. “Why are you in the tank? Isn’t it dangerous? And where’s your diving gear? Like, aren’t you supposed to have something to help you breathe under water?...” 

“Man, why’d ya come here? I told ya I woulda talked to ya tomorrow,” Daryl says, and it comes out too loud in the empty room. 

But it draws Rick’s attention, pulling him out of his rant. “I… needed to see you,” the man says softly. His eyes are so intensely blue in the dimmed lighting reflected off the surface of the pool. He looks so beautiful. Daryl can’t help but smile a little, amazed at the fact that somebody as perfect as his Rick would want to be with a freak like him.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me, Daryl,” Rick confessed in that deep, low voice of his that makes Daryl feel light-headed. “I can’t concentrate when you’re not near me. I try to think about other things, I try to focus on my writing, but the only thing I can think about when you’re not around is when I can see you again. So when you didn’t pick up the phone after we were supposed to meet… You said you were with the sharks, so I sort of sneaked in here, wanted to see if you went to watch the Great Whites in that big aquarium or something, but on the way there, I saw you swimming… I mean… I saw  _ someone  _ swimming and thought it could’ve been you, but then… Was there a shark chasing you? But you were so much faster than it was…”

“Rick,” Daryl says. “I’m gonna explain. I just… needed time to clear my head, okay? Got lotsa shit on my mind. ‘twas a long day.” 

Rick sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then nods. “I think about you all the time,” he whispers. “I sit down at my desk, trying to write some damn dialogue, and the only thing comes to mind is… Like, how do I get you out of my head? How are you doing this to me?”

“C’mere,” Daryl mutters, and waits until Rick crouches at the edge of the pool to put his hands on the man’s shoulders in an awkward sort-of hug. “‘s the same for me,” he admits softly. “I touched myself today thinkin’ ‘bout kissin’ ya.”

Rick laughs at the words, incredulous, his wonderful eyes wide in his surprise. “You don’t just spring something like that on a guy,” he says. 

Daryl licks his lips. “I just wanna kiss ya,” he replies, and angles his face so that Rick can lean in to kiss him if he wants to. He thinks he saw something like this on a rom-com somewhere. A couple kissing at the edge of the swimming pool. It’s nice, isn’t it? Romantic. Picturesque. Whatever, as long as he gets the kiss he’s been wanting-

“Daryl,” Rick says. “Daryl, beneath you-”

_ Fuck.  _ He completely forgot about Joe. The mean old shark might dislike the clearer water near the surface, but he probably took Daryl’s escape as a challenge and decided to follow him here. Bull sharks don’t breach as well as Great Whites because of their slower speeds, but they  _ can  _ breach, and Rick’s too close to the edge for comfort with the dark shape underwater drawing nearer every second, so Daryl does the only thing he can think of - he pulls Rick into the water with him and lunges violently to the side, taking the man along for the ride. 

Only then does he realize how stupid the move was: he should’ve pushed Rick away as far as he could, but instead he just drew him closer to danger. Dumb, he’s so dumb. He can’t swim at his normal speed with Rick latching onto him like he’s a safety buoy, and Joe… Joe won’t let them go easy. He should’ve just. Pushed Rick away and dealt with Joe himself. Losing a limb might’ve been better than the possibility of losing Rick-

“Daryl,” Rick says, sounding more than slightly panicked. “I know it’s a bad time to tell you but… I can’t swim. I can’t swim, okay?”

They’re fucking screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry much about the cliff-hanger, the new chapter will be up tomorrow at the same time!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the dramatic shark fight, as promised!

Pulling Rick into the water was the dumbest thing he’d ever done, but now they’re here and Daryl doesn’t have a plan of action. Rick is clinging to him for dear life, watching the shark circling beneath them, and his eyes are wide and terrified. Daryl’s trying to get the situation under control; he attempts to communicate with Joe the way he would with any other shark, attempts to establish a claim on Rick, but it goes completely ignored: either Joe doesn’t understand, or, more likely, doesn’t care. It’s possible that for the old bull, it’s all a part of the hunt, his response to a challenge Daryl issued and then foolishly dragged Rick into, and he’s got nobody but himself to blame for this. If anything happens to Rick, it’s on him.

Then he remembers the emergency radio transmitter. He retrieves it from the pouch in his body suit, presses the little red button and hands it to Rick. 

“Hold it,” he demands. “Rick. I gonna get ya outta this safe, okay? But you gotta let me go for a sec,” he says softly.

Rick’s hold only tightens on him. “No, no,” he whimpers. His voice when he’s terrified like this fills Daryl with more dread than anything ever had up to this moment, even including the orca in the ocean. “Daryl, I can’t, I can’t swim, I’m going to drown, it’s gonna eat me-”

“It’s not,” Daryl promises curtly. “Please Rick, you gotta trust me. Please. I’m gonna deal with this, but you gotta trust me.”

And then, incredibly, Rick nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Tell me the plan.”

Daryl sighs in relief. “Right. So you gotta let go, m’kay? Ya can’t swim, but ‘s long as you don’t move, ya gonna be fine, ya gonna keep afloat. Hold on to this thing for me, an’ ‘s all gonna be fine,” he promises.

He’s actually almost got a plan.

Rick takes a deep breath and lets go just as Daryl pushes him away, strong enough for the man to float over just a few feet from the closest ladder. Maybe he can waddle towards it while Daryl distracts Joe; either way, Rick’s gotta keep afloat on his own for a moment. Just a moment: it’s gonna be fine. He can do this. 

Turning swiftly in the water, Daryl dives, and even before he can breathe proper, he makes himself speed up like he would if he tried to breach onto the surface. Instead, he directs the momentum downwards instead; he hits Joe’s spine with his head and outstretched arms. The shark reacts by turning and attempting to grab him with his jaws but Daryl has the advantage of being smaller and more agile. He swims underneath the shark, directly under its belly, and using the element of surprise, he opens his mouth wide and buries his teeth down on the softer skin where the bottom jaw meets the belly. He violently thrashes his head, tearing out bits and pieces of flesh. He’s too small to deal a lot of damage with one attack, but Joe still bucks wildly, confused at the assault he didn’t expect from a warm-blooded animal he likely categorized as easy prey even despite Daryl’s earlier challenge. There’s blood in the water and it becomes even more difficult to see, but Daryl still has enough presence of mind to bite, again and again, catching the belly and the pectoral fin with his teeth. The shark finally succeeds in throwing him off and Daryl growls, then spits out the teeth that came loose in his mouth. Immediately, new teeth take their place and Daryl lunges at the old shark again. Joe fights back this time, though, and he’s surprisingly fast when he feels threatened. His jaw closes around Daryl’s arm mid-lunge, and Daryl screams - it fucking hurts, why does it hurt, it never really hurts when he’s in the deep - but no voice comes out under water. To free himself before he loses the limb, Daryl quickly goes for the bull’s eye with the hand that’s not trapped. The shark’s jaws loosen and Daryl uses the opportunity to lunge again, aiming at the same spot he bit earlier, but this time, he buries his teeth as deep as he can and tears at the flesh around the wound with the hand he can move, and he doesn’t  _ fucking  _ let go until Joe stops fighting, until the old bull shark stiffens and begins to sink. Only then does Daryl pull away and he swims towards the surface as fast as he can without the use of one limb. 

_ Rick,  _ he thinks, frantic. He can’t sense the man in the water. Either he managed to get to the edge and climbed out of the pool, or he… what if he… But no, he didn’t. He couldn’t have drowned, he couldn’t have. No. Not Rick. Rick. His Rick. 

Familiar hands grab him as soon as he breaks the surface and Aaron helps him get back on the tiles. On the floor, he gets to his feet as soon as he’s able, not even waiting for the unpleasant sensation of choking on air to stop. Rick’s not there; only Aaron and Jesus are there, the latter dressed in a wetsuit and looking damn relieved.

“Are you hurt?” Aaron asks as soon as Daryl is capable of concentrating on something besides breathing properly.

“Fuck, man, it looked like the fucking Jaws,” Jesus says, staring wide-eyed at Daryl’s bloodied face and the arm that’s hanging limply. It’s still attached but, judging by the pain pulsating all over, the bones inside are crushed.

“Ain’t hurt much,” Daryl lies. He spits out some blood and two teeth. He might be in shock. His mouth and face are pretty sore from the roughness of Joe’s skin. He’s pretty sure there are open wounds on him that he just doesn’t realise yet. There’s Joe’s blood, too. He really must look like he’s in a horror show.

But Rick’s not there.

“Rick,” he says, looking around in such a rush his head hurts. “He fine? Couldn’t get ‘im out, had to get Joe off ‘is back-“

“He’s fine,” Aaron promises, squeezing Daryl’s good shoulder with a warm hand. Daryl almost doesn’t hate him right now, just for these two words. “He’s in shock, but he’s fine. Kept asking about you, actually. He’s at the infirmary, Denise took care of him.”

“Thought I’d have to jump in there with a Goddamn harpoon. What the fuck happened down there, man?” Jesus asks, incredulous, and he’s right to be. 

Not only was it the first time Daryl had to actually fight a shark… it was literally the first time anything dangerous like that happened at the Institute in all the years it’s been open to the public, and fuck if it's not going to become trouble for everyone. Daryl can already imagine the security inspections, new protocols, and the weird Eco-terrorists about to knock at the door. And worse yet… the people who took Merle away might catch wind of this, and they might come for Daryl. Because Rick won’t keep quiet about this, right? He might’ve liked Daryl before this, but now, now he won’t. After all, Daryl dragged him into the water where he could’ve been eaten by a damn mean old shark. It’s not something anyone would easily forgive.

“Gotta take you to the infirmary, too,” Jesus says. “You're still bleeding everywhere. What if it gets infected?”

“Can't. Naturally immune,” Daryl reminds him. The blood loss is getting to him, though; he’s feeling weirdly light-headed and his vision begins to swim. Like he’s under the water, but he knows he’s not, because he can’t breathe, and he always breathes better under the water-

Aaron says something, and his worried face looks so funny, and then Jesus yells, but Daryl doesn’t understand why he’s yelling - and then everything goes black.

When he comes to, he’s submerged up to his neck in a shallow tank at the infirmary. There is an IV in his arm and a hand holding his, and for a moment, Daryl is confused. Did something happen to him? Oh. Oh. Yeah, there was a shark. Henry? But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? He looks down at his midsection, and sure enough, there are scars there, but they’re old. So not Henry. Another shark? Why would another shark bite him?

“Daryl,” Rick says, squeezing his fingers, and Daryl remembers everything at once.

Joe. Rick in the water. Blood and teeth. Stupid, to have dragged Rick into danger. What had he done? Rick must hate him now. 

But he’s here, and he’s holding Daryl’s hand, so maybe he doesn’t hate him that much.

“Rick,” Daryl whispers. His lips feel dry and the inside of his mouth tastes funny. He’s missing teeth, which is so weird. Like, there are actual gaps in the rows. They’re going to fill soon, but still. So, so weird. 

“Yer pretty,” he mutters, looking up at Rick with what he’s sure must be a completely dumbstruck expression. But it’s true. Rick is so, so pretty, with his eyes so really, really blue, and his red lips that Daryl knows are so soft. And everything. He’s pretty. And Daryl loves him. 

“I think I love you too,” Rick says. Oh. Did Daryl say it out loud? He must have. 

Mmm. Wait. “Ya do?” He asks, unable to pipe down on the excitement. He feels like he’s high. Is he high? Is that why everything is so colorful?

“Yes,” Rick reassures him. He squeezes Daryl’s fingers again and. It’s nice. 

“I saw what you did in the water. You wrestled the shark for me.”

“Ain't done no such thing,” Daryl protests. Even a dumb catshark could tell it for a lie, he’s not a very convincing liar even at his best. But he’s supposed to be hiding his true nature, isn’t he? Or isn’t he? He thinks he is.

“Yer just in shock. Think ya saw stuff, but-”

“I know what I saw,” Rick interrupts gently. He smiles at Daryl, and his smile is very pretty, too. 

“I saw you wrestling the shark,” the man continues calmly, “and I saw you biting it on the jugular. Then there was blood and that's when they pulled me out, so I didn't see how it ended.”

“Sharks ain't got no jugulars,” Daryl explains. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove or contradict, but he feels like he has to establish this very important fact. Because Rick is a writer and he needs to Know Things. To make his books realistic. Who’d want to read a book that’s not realistic, right? So Rick needs to be aware that sharks don’t have jugulars. So Daryl couldn’t have torn out Joe’s jugular. Because Joe doesn’t… didn’t… have a jugular.

Did he kill a shark? For Rick? Did he? He was supposed to be protecting sharks, not killing them. He’d kill any shark that threatened Rick, though, he’d kill a whole ocean of sharks if they were a danger to Rick. But he hopes he didn’t kill Joe. Aaron will be angry if he did. And okay, he’s been angry with Aaron -  _ why was he so angry with Aaron?  _ \- but that doesn’t mean he wants Aaron to hate him now. 

“You were supposed to call for me if he woke up,” Denise says, approaching with a rather stern expression on her face. Daryl beams at her, offering her a gappy-toothed grin. Denise rolls her eyes and comes over to check up on him. She pokes on his shoulder with some metallic instrument and Daryl pouts because it hurts. 

“Ooookay,” she says. “Your wounds are healing, but it’s going to take longer than just a few hours. I’ll have to keep you here for a few days. Are you comfortable? I can have them fetch a bigger pool.”

“‘s fine,” Daryl decides. “Can Rick stay?”

Denise looks at Daryl, then at Rick. “Well, it’s no trouble for me. As long as Mr. Grimes doesn’t mind-”

“I’d like to stay,” Rick announces quickly, and Daryl offers him the same toothy smile he gave Denise before. Hmmm. Wasn’t he supposed to be hiding his teeth? From people? But Rick doesn’t look like they scare him. Because Daryl bit Joe on the not-jugular with them. So the teeth are good. They’re for protection. Good teeth. Goooooood.

“Yeah,” Denise agrees. With something. Daryl hasn’t been paying a lot of attention. “Just, I’ll need to give him something. So he sleeps. His restorative properties are at their most efficient when he’s asleep.”

“Sure, I don’t mind,” Rick says. 

Then Denise does something with Daryl’s IV, and his vision swims again - ha, funny, he’s in the water but he’s not fully submerged, so his eyes shouldn’t be swimming - and he sleeps. 

Daryl doesn’t dream, generally, at least not things he remembers in the waking world. He’s had some nightmares in his life, sure, when his daddy was still alive, or lately with the orca hunting him in the deep. But normal, pleasant dreams? He doesn’t think so. But right now, he’s pretty sure he’s dreaming. He’s in the ocean, surrounded by masses of saltwater, but it doesn’t feel threatening in any way. It’s good, instead. Very good. There are hands running all over him, touching him. He wants to open his eyes, but he doesn’t need to: he knows who the hands belong to anyway.  _ Rick.  _ Daryl reaches out to touch, too, but his movements are sluggish and the only thing he manages to hold on to is water. It’s fine, because the hands on his body are joined by lips, and Rick kisses a warm trail down Daryl’s neck and chest, sucking on the skin, nipping lightly with his teeth. He doesn’t actually break skin, but he will, Daryl knows this, he will. Those soft, red lips find Daryl’s and they kiss, close-mouthed at first, but not for long, because Rick’s tongue coaxes Daryl’s lips to part and invades the inside of his mouth. But it feels like a seduction, not a conquest, and Daryl tries to respond with his own tongue, only Rick doesn’t let him. He draws back with a chuckle and kisses, then licks down Daryl’s chest, his abdomen, trailing the scars on his midsection. Hands reach between his legs and rub the inner side of his thighs. 

_ Rick,  _ Daryl says, and the name comes out distorted in the water.

Rick’s fingers wrap around Daryl’s cock, tighter than Daryl would do it to himself, but not tight enough to hurt him. He groans and pushes into the touch, and Rick chuckles and begins to stroke up and down the length. The pace is slow, almost torturous, but Rick kisses him to make up for it, and the taste of blood fills Daryl’s mouth, but it’s not foul and cold like Joe’s blood. It’s sweet, it’s warm, it tastes of Rick and safety and  _ I think I love you, too,  _ and Daryl moans into the kiss as clever hands slowly drive him to completion. So good, so good, so damn good, there, just there and Daryl feels it coming, that wave of pleasure that’s already becoming familiar to him. But it’s even better now, because it’s Rick, and they’re here together, and Rick’s hands, and Rick’s teeth, his blunt, puny human teeth on Daryl’s lower lip, and  _ his hands,  _ and-

He wakes up with a gasp, his lungs burning at the transition from- but he wasn’t really in the ocean, was he? He wasn’t in the water, so why are his lungs burning like that? He chokes on too much oxygen his lungs don’t know how to absorb, and he coughs, and his eyes tear up, and there’s someone talking to him in a steady, calming tone.

_ Denise,  _ he recognizes even through the beginnings of panic setting in, and he forces himself to measure his breaths, to count them until they finally become regular again. Normal. Human. 

Nothing hurts him anymore, not when he’s able to breathe again. How long was he asleep? Rick’s not there. Why isn’t Rick there? He was supposed to be there.

“Calm down, Daryl,” Denise tells him. “You’re fine. You’re alright. And Rick’s alright, too, I promise. He just went to the bathroom. He’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay,” Daryl replies. “Okay.”

“Professor King will want to speak to you, once I give you an all-clear to leave the infirmary,” Denise warns, and Daryl nods. Yeah, he supposes it makes sense. He’s got a lot to answer for, after all. He got an outside person into an extremely dangerous situation, he injured - maybe even killed - a specimen the Institute was studying. He’ll probably going to end up fired. He just hopes Rick won’t throw him on his ass, too. 

Though he probably deserves it.

Rick does, indeed, return a moment later, and when he sees Daryl awake, the relief on his face is difficult to miss. It’s like he never wants to let Daryl out of his sight for another minute. He helps Daryl out of the tank, and supports him when Denise examines him, and he even keeps holding his hand when they walk to Daryl’s tiny, tiny apartment where he can get changed from the ruined wetsuit to some normal clothes. 

“I’m still waiting on an explanation about all this,” Rick says once Daryl’s dressed. 

He’s sitting on Daryl’s bed, and he looks like he belongs there, which. Is a strange thought. Rick’s beard seems longer and there are circles around his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Maybe he hasn’t. According to Denise, Daryl was unconscious for forty-nine hours. Rick never left his side for more than a couple of minutes during that time. He must be exhausted, but still, here he is, watching Daryl, like he’s afraid Daryl might disappear on him all of a sudden. 

And Daryl owes him so much. An apology. An explanation, yes, fuck, Rick definitely deserves to know what he’s gotten himself to. All that science-y stuff Eric could tell him, about Daryl’s hormones and shit. Daryl will talk to Eric, get him to explain. 

For now, he has to stick to what he knows.

“Been like this my whole life,” he begins, moving to sit down next to Rick. For some reason, he was expecting the man to flinch away, but Rick doesn’t. Instead, he immediately leans into Daryl, puts a hand on his shoulder and hums, encouraging him to go on.

“I’m listening,” he says.

Daryl smiles, and nods. “My momma, she was this, too. A shark. She was real pretty. Had teeth like mine, but her eyes were darker, and she swam real damn fast. She taught me an’ my brother. Never told us how we come to be, though, so I can’t tell ya that.”   
“It’s fine,” Rick murmurs. “I’ll do research. Gonna find out for you.”

It makes Daryl chuckle. “Okay,” he agrees. “Thing is, I dunno much ‘sides that. I can breathe underwater an’ sharks usually like me, but tha’s about it. Oh, an’ I can eat meat with bones. ‘cause my jaws are sorta strong.”

“I shouldn’t be thinking it’s hot,” Rick drawls lazily. His breathing is becoming deeper, like he’s barely holding onto consciousness. He’s keeping his eyes closed. 

“Dunno what that means,” Daryl informs him, though of course it’s not true: he knows what  _ hot  _ means, and he likes that Rick thinks that about him. But it’s not a good time. Rick needs his rest, and Daryl has an unpleasant conversation awaiting him. 

So he kisses Rick’s forehead and pushes him to lie down on the bed. “Ya gotta sleep now, Rick,” he says softly. 

“Mmm. Only if you sleep with me,” Rick protests, but he already sounds like he’s seconds from dozing off. Indeed, it only takes half a minute before his soft breathing turns to snores. He looks so pretty when he’s asleep.

He always looks so pretty. 

“I love you,” Daryl whispers, smiling down at the sleeping man. He gathers the blankets and covers him, though it’s probably warm enough Rick could do without them. But just in case. Daryl just wants him comfortable and happy. Always. No matter what. As long as Rick’s fine, Daryl will be, too. 

With that mindset, he heads to the meeting with Ezekiel King, ready to face whatever’s coming his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to deliver on the "ocean sex" tag, though I promise, that's not the last we're seeing of it :>


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? Have I just set a number of chapters for this story to a finite number? Yes, yes I did. They're all outlined and should get written over the course of this month. Let's all hope my brain doesn't make me change things around too much!

Professor King’s office is not a place Daryl likes going to. Not because he thinks there’s something wrong with the Professor himself; no, he has nothing but respect for the man. It’s because Ezekiel King is not an  _ office-type  _ and if he wants to see someone in his office instead of literally anywhere else, that indicates trouble. Real trouble. Like, the worst kind. 

But Daryl already knew he was in trouble. He allowed an outsider inside the diving tank, got him into danger, and maimed a shark, of course he’s in some deep shit. If he gets fired and banned from ever crossing foot on the Institute’s property, he’ll be lucky to get off the hook so easy.

He’s gonna miss Henry and Lydia something fierce. 

With a sigh, Daryl knocks on the door. It opens to reveal Eric, who motions for him to come in. Daryl didn’t expect a friendly face here today, but he’s glad for it, even if he feels a pang of guilt as he remembers about Aaron and Jesus’ secret he’s not sure he should be hiding. Humans and their damn complications. Sometimes, Daryl really wishes he were as unemotional as a Great White shark whose only real problem is where to get his next meal. Life would be easier if he were dumb as a drawerful of socks.

“Mr. Dixon, good. You’re here,” Professor King says; he’s probably the only person who still bothers to speak to Daryl so formally. “Take a seat,” he points to the chair in front of his giant, messy desk. Very messy. Overflowing with papers and charts, binders and glossy photos. Nobody would think to associate the calm, collected man with the mess on his desk at first glance. Oh well. People aren’t always what they seem.

“First things first,” Professor King begins, and Daryl feels inclined to interrupt with an important question:

“Is Joe dead?”

To which the Professor nods solemnly. “Yes,” he says. “The bull shark died due to sustained injuries. Perhaps it’ll be some consolation that he likely wouldn’t have survived the month either way. Doctor Raleigh here found something interesting during the autopsy.”

“Joe had cancer,” Eric supplies. “I found a tumor inside the right eyewell. Doctor Sasha Williams from the University of Georgia sends her best regards, by the way. Her research is based mostly around the subject of the development of cancer in big sharks and the supposed antiangiogenic properties of shark cartilage. It’s pretty rare to find sick sharks, so Doctor Williams is about as happy as a clam right now. She’s coming in tomorrow afternoon to do some tests on the carcass.”

“Uh, okay,” Daryl mutters. He can’t help but notice that neither Eric nor the Professor seem especially angry with him, which is rather unexpected. 

“In other words, Mr. Dixon, while it’s unfortunate that the shark met its end the way it did, at least its death is not completely without meaning. Or merit,” Professor King says. “Which leads us to another matter entirely.”

“Ya gonna fire me?” Daryl asks, already able to guess where all this build-up is leading to. He gets it: they’re being nice, trying to make sure he doesn’t feel too bad because they’re his friends. Unfortunately for their delicate human sensibilities, Daryl prefers a direct approach. 

But Professor King looks surprised at Daryl’s blunt question. “No, of course not we’re not firing you,” he says, frowning as he appears to attempt to unravel the strands of thoughts that gave Daryl the idea he’s being let go of.

“Why not?” Daryl inquires, confused. After all, his carelessness cost the Institute a specimen. 

“You were saving a life,” Professor King replies. He sounds very reasonable and firm, like he’s explaining something to a child. “Your actions were dictated by necessity. It’s a pity that we lost a shark, but believe me, it would’ve been much worse had that man you were with, been killed.”

“He wouldna been there if not for me, though,” Daryl protests. He can’t even imagine a world where his stupidity got Rick killed, so he chooses to ignore that part. “So ‘s all my fault.”

“Do you  _ want _ to get fired?” Eric asks.

Professor King clears his throat. “If you aren’t happy at the Alexandria Institute-”

“That’s not it,” Daryl assures quickly. “Been real happy to be here. Just… I thought… Well, ain’cha guys angry or anythin’? I killed a shark. Got Rick in danger. Kinda… thought it woulda make y’all mad.”

“Your friend already signed an NDA,” the Professor says. “Michonne looked it over and she assures me we’re covered from all angles. I don’t see a reason to be angry with you. I’m just somewhat disappointed at the lost opportunity to work with a truly remarkable bull shark, that’s all..”

Daryl frowns, then remembers he was out for a couple of days, which gave the Institute ample time to make some sense out of this whole mess of a situation, at least from a legal point of view. It doesn’t make it all fine, not by a long shot, but it just might mean Daryl’s not going to be forced to find a new job and a place to live.

“Shark was a mean bastard anyway,” he mutters, because it’s true. “Wouldna worked with none of y’all.”

Professor King and Eric apparently deem it an appropriate argument to end the topic. Daryl’s asked to sign a few documents, including a form for paid leave over the next two weeks (“You’ll need some time to regain the full use of your arm, and anyway, the Biter Tank’s off-limits to you until all those hormones stop floating about, so you might as well take time off to relax,” Eric explains cheerfully). Daryl’s never taken leave from work since he started at the Institute, and he’s a bit lost as to what he’s supposed to do with it. He still lives there, after all; so what, he’s just supposed to stay in his room and let someone else take over his mundane day-to-day duties, such as feeding the sharks or mopping the floors? 

“You can try going somewhere nice,” Eric supplies helpfully as he accompanies Daryl to the cafeteria for a long-overdue breakfast. “Have you ever been abroad?”

“Ain’t never wanted to be,” Daryl says, scowling. He takes a minute to browse through the menu before he decides to order a daily special. He he grunts when he’s given an extra-large portion of lasagne. It’ll do. Not perfect, but with so many people around, he doesn’t supposed he can ask for raw meat.

Eric sits with him, his attention divided between a monologue about some fascinating algae species commonly found inside some shark stomachs, and something on his tablet. It’s fine. Daryl is glad for both the company and the fact he doesn’t have to talk a lot. He doesn’t know what he could say. 

_ Hey, Eric, did’ya know your boyfriend who ya wanted to propose to is courtin’ another man? _ That doesn’t seem like a good conversation starter. Neither does,  _ I think there’s an orca tryin’ to eat me an’ I don’t know who it is,  _ but then again, maybe that’s what he should be talking about. With someone, at least. As far as he’s aware, nobody knows about his suspicions regarding what it was that attacked him that time in the water. He might’ve mumbled something about orcas under his breath in his delirium, but he’s pretty sure nobody took it seriously and as such, nobody really remembers. 

Perhaps it’s not a good thing. If the orca is circling around him, Daryl wonders if it wouldn’t be easier to find out who it is if he had a few more pairs of eyes looking out for it. 

“Do you think ‘s possible there might be other things like me in the water?” He asks in an attempt to breach the subject.

Eric, who was in the middle of explaining how a tiger shark’s stomach lining contains just the right amount of acid for the algae to thrive on, pauses mid-word and blinks. He seems to process the question quickly and hums thoughtfully.

“It’s really hard to say,” he replies eventually. “I mean, huh. I’m not even entirely sure_ what_ you are, Daryl. Might be, you’re human, and there’s been some strange mutation in your genome that’s been passed down in your family for generations. Maybe somebody experimented on your ancestors down the line, and your nature is a result of those experiments. Or you may be a completely separate species, which would pose an entirely new set of questions. Are you aliens? Merpeople? Was there magic involved? Probably not, but I can’t exclude the possibility. The point is, I have no idea.”

“Makes two of us,” Daryl admits glumly. “Ain’t never met more sharks like me. Been thinkin’ though,” he pauses.

“Yeah?” Eric encourages. 

Daryl sighs. “I think I’m bein’ stalked by a killer whale. Or, ya know. Someone that‘s like me, but a killer whale.”

At that, Eric pales and his eyes go wide. “Oh my God, Daryl. Are you sure? Was that what you think attacked you in the ocean? Did you manage to get a peek at your attacker? What did it look like?”

“Ain’t seen nothin’,” Daryl admits gruffly. “Woulda been easier if I did.”

He finishes his plate and orders another, then returns to the table. “Maybe I should try goin’ abroad,” he mutters. 

“To hide from the orca?” Eric guesses and pats him on the arm in a friendly manner. “Listen, I’ll keep an eye out for any suspicious people hanging about the Institute. Do you have any pointers, anything that might help identify that killer whale?”

Daryl shrugs. “They got brown eyes?” He offers sheepishly. “I seriously dunno. Unless ya gonna do those genetic tests of yers on all visitors, I got no idea how to find that dude.”

“Dude,” Eric repeats thoughtfully. “You don’t think it’s a woman?”

At that, Daryl frowns. “Might be a woman,” he says, “but I got a feelin’ ‘s not. Dunno why. Can’t really remember much ‘bout neither attack-”

“There was more than one?” Eric asks in surprise, his tone going a little high-pitched and his eyes widening. 

“Uh. I think so,” Daryl admits reluctantly. “Second one, nothin’ happened, I ain’t been injured. Somethin’ tried pullin’ me into the water, that’s it. Mighta been a dolphin, they’re jerks. Or, I dunno, a real big bass. Startled me is all.”

Eric types something into his tablet. “I’ll get the others looking out, too,” he promises. “Just Aaron and Jesus, don’t worry. They can be discreet about it.”

Daryl feels a terrible pang in his chest when he remembers what else Aaron and Jesus can be real discreet about. He almost opens his mouth to tell Eric everything, but he decides against it in the last moment. It’s awful, he hates it, but it’s not his secret to tell. He doesn’t have any experience with human relationships, but in the movies, it never worked out well when a third party - fourth, in this case, he thinks humorlessly - got involved. Eric might not believe him, or might start hating him even if he does believe him, just because Daryl would be the harbinger of bad news. Nobody likes to hear bad shit, and anyway, it’s easier to hate the messenger than the guy you’ve loved for years.

So Daryl doesn’t say anything about what he knows Aaron and Jesus did. Instead, he sighs.

“No need to tell anyone else ‘till I know for sure there’s somethin’ tryin’a get me,” he says firmly, and then offers Eric a tiny smile. “Yer a good friend,” he adds, hating himself just a little for not having the decency to be a good friend as well. Even more so when Eric pats him reassuringly on the shoulder and then gets him a double chocolate sundae for desert.

Daryl returns to his tiny apartment some time later and finds Rick still asleep in his bed. The man’s managed to kick off the blankets and wrap himself around the pillow, holding onto it like he might to a lover. He’s drooling a little in his sleep and makes very soft snoring noises which Daryl can’t help but find adorable. He feels a surge of protectiveness over his beautiful human mate; Rick seems so vulnerable as he sleeps, so defenseless, it makes Daryl not want to leave him alone in this state ever again. He’s vaguely aware that it’s probably an exaggeration of his feelings caused by hormones, but he doesn’t exactly care at the moment. Rick is there, helpless to defend himself were something like a killer whale to attack him, and Daryl feels the near-overwhelming need to protect him at all costs.

He locks the door, takes off his clothes and climbs into the bed next to the man. Rick sighs in his sleep and shifts close to him, seeking the warmth of another body in his dreams. Daryl smiles and wraps an arm around the man, pulling him close against his chest. He draws the blanket around them, mostly to keep Rick sufficiently warm, and he plants a kiss on Rick’s temple, smiling when the gesture makes Rick dream-whisper something that sounds vaguely like Daryl’s name.

What’s almost strange is, Daryl hardly experiences any arousal at the moment. From the educational talks with Eric, he would’ve expected such proximity to awaken sexual desire, but instead, he’s just content to simply hold his sleeping mate in his arms, gently brushing his fingers through the curling hair at the nape of Rick’s neck. He enjoys the warm puffs of breath the man exhales into his bare skin where Rick’s wet lips touch his shoulder. All of this is enough to engulf him in a sense of happiness, better even than swimming with Henry and Lydia, better than anything he remembers of the nicer parts of a childhood with his momma.

_ I think I love you too,  _ Rick told him in the infirmary. He did, didn’t he? It wasn’t something Daryl just dreamed up in his heavily medicated state. He dreamed that Rick was touching his intimate places, but that was after. Before that, Rick said he loved him, and Daryl can’t wait to hear him say it again. It’s more important than anything else. Nothing, not the orca, nor Aaron cheating on Eric, not even Henry and Lydia and their potential toothy babies matter as much to Daryl as Rick. 

This overwhelming love he feels, it terrifies him as much as it fills him with joy.

Is this how his momma once felt towards his daddy? It’s difficult to imagine somebody could love a man like Will Dixon to this degree, but then again, Daryl knows best that his emotions aren’t exactly rational at the moment. Perhaps his momma was once overcome with the same irrational need to be with the human who caused those feelings to arise in her, the same biological imperative to mate with the person who aroused those kinds of responses in her. She couldn’t have known that the choice she made to succumb to her nature was a poor one; that the happiness she felt in the presence of her man would soon evaporate when that man’s true nature rose to the surface. Will Dixon wasn’t bad-looking in his youth. He was capable of being charming when he wanted to be, and Daryl’s momma was an exceptionally beautiful woman. When Will Dixon showed his true colors, it was already too late.

Rick is nothing like Will Dixon, Daryl’s absolutely sure of that in spite of the emotional mess his natural urge to mate has made of his feelings towards the man. It’s not something he’s lying to himself about, it’s not something he’s confused about neither. It’s just fact: there’s no way Rick would ever betray him like Will Dixon betrayed his momma. Rick is a good man, a devoted father to his pup, a great writer. He knows what Daryl is, now, and he doesn’t hate him. He’s everything Daryl could ever want in a mate.

With a soft smile, Daryl presses another kiss to the top of Rick’s head. The man hums dreamily and slowly blinks his eyes open. He lifts a hand to cover his mouth as he yawns, and then he offers Daryl a smile of his own.

“I like wakin’ up to you, darlin’,” he says in a low murmur. 

“Might get the opportunity to do it again if ya wanna,” Daryl replies. “I’m on vacation for two weeks. Got all the time I want to spend with ya.”

“I’ll never get properly started on that book, then,” Rick groans, but the twinkle in his eyes betrays his amusement and affection. “You’re gonna thoroughly distract me, you know this, right?”

“I can not be distractin’,” Daryl informs him. He’s perfectly capable of not drawing attention to himself. It’s one of the things that make him a good hunter. 

Rick chuckles. “Oh, I sincerely doubt it,” he whispers. He looks up at Daryl with his beautiful blue eyes. “Whenever you’re there in the same room as me, I can’t help but be drawn to you. It’s like there’s something magnetic about you. I’m incapable of defying that pull. I don’t even want to try.”

“‘s the same for me,” Daryl confesses earnestly. He bites down on his lower lip and brushes his thumb against the fuzz of Rick’s beard at his jawline. “Saw ya that first time an’ never looked away. Was yours, since the start.”

Rick breathes out shakily and leans into Daryl’s touch. “It scares me,” he admits. There’s a raw sort of honesty on his face as he says it. “The depth of my feelings for you scares me. I’ve never felt like this with anyone before you. Is this… is this normal? Is this something that always happens with your kind?”

Immediately remembering Will Dixon, Daryl shakes his head. “Might be, ‘s only like this for us,” he murmurs barely audibly.

Rick sighs and moves in to kiss him gently on the lips. He runs a hand through the long tresses of Daryl’s hair, pulling him closer, and Daryl lets himself be pulled. His lips part on an exhale when Rick’s tongue presses insistently against the seam, and he forces himself to remain still when the man begins to carefully explore the inside of his mouth. Even though his whole body is positively thrumming with the need to bite, he doesn’t want to hurt Rick. Rick’s tongue touches his own, coaxing it into motion in slow, languid strokes. Daryl responds, hoping that despite his inexperience, he’s not horrible at it; he sighs softly into Rick’s mouth when the man runs his tongue over the tips of his second row of teeth. 

Reluctantly, Rick draws back and licks his lips. “That was nice,” he says in a deep voice. 

Daryl nods. “‘twas real nice,” he agrees. “Ya alright? Ya didn’t… cut yer tongue or anythin’, right?”

Rick chuckles. “No, I didn’t,” he assures with a fondness on his face that matches the warmth in his incredibly blue eyes. After a moment, he asks: “You know what I’m thinking?”

“Mmm?” Daryl hums in wordless inquiry. He leans into the crook of Rick’s neck and nuzzles at the delicate skin, enjoying the scent he finds there. 

“I’m thinking, we’re gonna have a lot of time to figure out how to make it feel even better,” Rick says, moving his head to offer Daryl better access to his neck.

Daryl begins to press close-mouthed kisses along the line of Rick’s throat. He can feel arousal pooling slowly between his legs, but it’s not the rushed sort he’s been getting used to when he touched himself. It’s something far less frenzied, something almost lazy. He doesn’t even have the urge to do anything in particular to address it. In fact, he rather enjoys his current state.

“I’ve got an idea,” Rick says after a few minutes pass between them in comfortable silence filled only with the sounds of their breaths and heartbeats. When Daryl makes a soft inquisitive noise in the back of his throat, Rick clarifies: “For a date. I have an idea for a date.”

“Right now?” Daryl asks. He’s so content right now, he’s not sure he wants to get up to do things. But then again, their dates so far have been nice. The bar, the beach, even the amusement park even though it was not technically a date; Daryl finds himself becoming curious about what new idea Rick has come up with for them.

“Right now,” the man confirms. He slowly sits up in the bed, stretches out his lean limbs, and then blushes prettily when he notices Daryl’s state of undress. “Umm, you better get dressed first,” he suggests, looking away.

Daryl gets out of bed and shamelessly walks to the dresser to find some clothes. He puts them on and turns back to face Rick, seeking his approval. He notes with a frown that Rick’s eyes are resolutely locked in the ceiling and his face is still wearing that endearing shade of red. 

“Gotta get used to seein’ me without clothes on,” he warns playfully. The smell of Rick’s arousal is pleasant, sweet like the chocolate Daryl enjoys sometimes. He likes having this sort of effect on his mate. He’ll have to do some research on how to cause that kind of reaction by other means than just unabashed nakedness. He likes the idea of seducing Rick, even though he knows approximately  _ nothing  _ about seduction. 

He’s got two whole weeks to learn. 

They head out a few minutes later, a remnant of the previous blush still visible across Rick’s cheeks. They hold hands as they walk down the hallway to the exit from the Institute. Once they’re outside, Rick shakes his head and looks at Daryl.

He asks almost shyly, “So… You’re saying, you without clothes on… It’s a thing?”

Daryl licks his lips and smirks, the corners of his lips quirking in amusement. “Oh yeah,” he rumbles in a low voice, leaning casually into Rick’s personal space to plant a kiss behind his ear. He gently tightens the grip on Rick’s fingers with his own. “‘s definitely a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys know this story has an actual plotline? No? It does, though, I promise. It's even going to start developing soon...


	19. Chapter 19

Daryl never pictured a library as a perfect date location, for more reasons than one. First of all, he never really gave much thought to date spots at all before Rick. If he had thought about it, however, he still wouldn’t have picked a library. It’s a public place where he’d be hard pressed to find enough privacy to actually be close with his mate, for one. The chairs aren’t especially comfortable, the librarians glare at everyone who so much as says a word, and Daryl hasn’t taken his glasses so he can’t even keep himself busy. 

Rick, however, takes to the library like a fish to water:

He claims a spot in the reading room, has Daryl guard it with his body and, if need be, his life, and disappears into the labyrinth of shelves. He returns from time to time to add a book or two to the pile growing on the table in front of Daryl. 

“Just a few more,” he says each time Daryl gives him a glance full of disbelief. “We need them.”

From what Daryl can see, the books vary from mythologies of various cultures, through science-fiction and fantasy novels, to anthologies of pseudo-science journals. They all seem centered around oceanside cultures, but that’s about it for connections between the different titles. To be honest, Daryl can’t help but be slightly bewildered about the point of Rick’s sudden book collection.

“There’s over twenty of them,” he mutters when the man returns to the table one more time. 

Rick grins, nodding. “Yeah. It’s a good start for research,” he announces. “I can check out up to twenty-five at once, I have a deal here. Will you help me carry them, darlin’?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he agrees. “‘s no way yer scrawny ass can deal with it all on yer own.”

It’s Rick’s turn to roll his eyes. “Like you don’t like my ass,” he says with a lewd wink. 

Daryl has to consider it, actually. He didn’t give much thought to that particular part of Rick’s anatomy before. He can’t tell if it’s special in any way, he’s never seen it without clothes, but honestly? It doesn’t appear to be very interesting. Daryl is much more interested in Rick’s sky-blue eyes, and his kissable lips, and his pretty hands. Rick’s backside doesn’t hold much appeal in comparison. 

Should it, though? Maybe Daryl doesn’t know everything about human sexuality just yet. Would Rick be okay with explaining? He’d rather not put Eric through the mortification of any further lessons if he could avoid it. The man’s already helped him a lot in this matter, more than he had any obligation to, in any case. Anything else Daryl wants to know, he supposes he’s going to have to learn through other channels.

Perhaps Jesus would be willing to assist, if Daryl can quell his distaste with the man long enough to ask. He hates disliking Jesus. He feels a bit like maybe Jesus going for Aaron is his fault: if he noticed and acknowledged that Jesus had feelings for him, maybe he could’ve actually tried to date the man and Jesus wouldn’t have turned towards someone taken. It’s a dumb thought, of course, Daryl’s aware of that; he’s pretty sure any relationship between himself and Jesus would’ve failed immediately because prior to Rick, Daryl’s never experienced anything remotely close to sexual desire. If he couldn’t make a partner happy, then there wouldn’t have been a point to the relationship whatsoever, and who knows - maybe Jesus would’ve ended up drinking too much one night and having sexual intercourse with Aaron anyway. 

Fuck, humans are so complicated. They have their own social constructs for everything, and then they react in ways outside of the generally accepted rules anyway, and expect everyone else to deal with the outcome. 

“You’re real silent,” Rick notes, packing the books to two cloth bags he purchased at the check-out desk because he apparently forgot his own. Daryl approves of the choice not to use plastic bags. He’ll always approve of not using plastic. 

“Hmmm?” He hums distractedly. 

Rick chuckles. “You know, if you don’t like my ass, you can just say so, sweetheart,” he assures. He hands Daryl one of the bags. 

“Ain’t seen it up close,” Daryl mutters, and he licks his lower lip carefully when Rick outright laughs at the reply. It doesn’t feel like the man is making fun of him; more like he’s laughing because he thinks Daryl’s made a joke. Or maybe he actually finds Daryl’s awkwardness amusing, but if that’s it, he’s really good-natured about it. There’s no mockery in the sound of his laughter, no hint of malice in his pretty face, nothing at all that would suggest he’s being mean. 

Laughter is often a response to the feeling of happiness, not just amusement, Daryl remembers. Carol explained that to him a long time ago, along with some other generally confusing facts about why people do the things they do. He wonders, then, does he really make Rick happy this easily? 

“C’mon,” the man says, heading towards the exit. He takes Daryl’s hand to make sure he follows. 

“Let’s go have some lunch. It’s about time, isn’t it?” He suggests as they leave the library.

Daryl decides not to tell him that he’s only just had two extra-large helpings of lasagne in the cafeteria about two hours ago. He’s never against more food. One of the best features of being whatever he is: he’ll never have to offend anyone by rejecting an offer of eating together. His stomach might as well be made of rubber, with the amounts he’s capable of fitting inside.

They go to a steakhouse which is quite empty this early in the afternoon. Apparently, it’s not customary to get steaks during lunch break. Most places like this aren’t even open until later, but the Southern Belle Steakhouse & Grill opens at noon every day. It’s run by a big guy called Abraham Ford, ex-military who lost an eye in Afghanistan and decided to settle down in Virginia Beach. He’s got a few waitresses working for him, but he cooks everything on the menu by himself. 

Daryl’s been here only a handful of times before. The food is amazing, but the place itself is on the Institute’s unofficial black list: Abe used to date Rosita the lab technician, but they had a bad break up and, obviously, everybody at the Institute sided with Rosita due to the fact she’s one of their own.  _ It’s what people do,  _ Carol explained to Daryl when he expressed some doubts whether or not some relationship woes were worth losing a great meat-serving place over. He had to acquiesce. 

But Rick isn’t from the Institute, and Daryl’s on vacation so he can do what he wants.

“Now if it ain’t Dixon, my favorite carnivore of ‘em all!” Abe greets him as soon as Daryl steps inside the steakhouse. “What’s up, man? Your people let up some?”

Daryl offers him a close-mouthed smile. “Two weeks off,” he says, “ain’t takin’ no sides when I ain’t workin’.”

Then he motions to Rick. “Me ‘n Rick’s gonna take the table out back, if yer cool with that.” 

“Sure thing,” Abe replies, shrugging. “Y’all know where the menus are. Grab some on the way. I’ll send a girl your way in five, holler if you need ‘er quicker than that.”

The table Daryl leads Rick to is located in the so-called beer garden in the backyard of the building. It’s nice and secluded. There’s a view of the ocean, stretching so far into the horizon, the Barrier Islands are nicely visible.

Daryl wonders what it would be like to go swimming there. He’s been planning to go, but never found the time for some reason and, unfortunately, he can’t go now. Not until this whole orca business is over and done with. 

“So… what do you recommend?” Rick asks, looking at the menu after they take seats next to each other, probably closer than strictly required. His shirt isn’t buttoned up fully, Daryl notices, and there’s a fuzzy patch of chest hair peeking from underneath. It’s darker than Daryl’s. He wonders what it feels like to the touch. Maybe he’ll have the opportunity to run his fingers through it later. Maybe Rick will let him.

“Hey there, Earth to Daryl,” Rick calls, touching his forearm at the same time. 

“What? Uh,” Daryl replies, blinking. “I, uh. Got distracted,” he admits, feeling his face warm up. He’s blushing.  _ What a dumb reaction, _ he can’t help but think in mild annoyance, again. It’s probably the human-like feature he finds the most nonsensical in himself. 

“Distracted by what?” Rick asks with a tiny smirk which seems to indicate that he knows exactly what it is that Daryl got distracted about. 

Still, Daryl decides to be forward about it. “Your chest hair,” he says, looking away. “Ain’t got as much of it. Made me curious.”

Rick’s smile grows wider. “You’re adorable,” he says. “C’mon now. Tell me what’s good to eat here.”

Daryl nods and takes a look at the menu. “Uh, rib-eye’s real good. I mean. I like meat,” he explains, like it’s something that needs to be stated explicitly.

“Of course you do, you’re a shark,” Rick agrees. “Might be too early for me to get a steak… How about the burgers? Any of them good?”

“All a’them,” Daryl replies. “‘cept the vegan one. Dunno why’s it called a burger.”

In the end, Rick chooses a classic burger with a side of fries, and he laughs a little incredulously when Daryl spits out his order of three rib-eye steak specialties, a porterhouse, rare, and three servings of smoked buffalo wings. 

“An’ a side of onion rings,” Daryl finishes, and has to stop himself from grinning when the bewildered waitress repeats the order for confirmation. She’s new; she wasn’t here back when the Institute crew used to frequent Abe’s steakhouse. Maybe that’s why she’s so confused. The other girls, Liv and Cheeky, they wouldn’t even bat an eye; they’ve seen Daryl really hungry before, after all.

“You’re really going to eat all that?” Rick asks when the girl leaves. 

“Sure,” Daryl replies. “Ain’t much point orderin’ if I weren’t plannin’ to eat it, no?”

Rick shakes his head. “Feeding you seems like a pricey affair,” he decides. There’s a fondness in his eyes and a warmth in his voice, even though it’s accompanied by some disbelief over Daryl’s appetite. 

“I’m trying to imagine how you would fare in a zombie apocalypse,” he adds a few minutes later, after the waitress - her name tag reads  _ Tina -  _ brings out their beers. When Daryl doesn’t reply, he continues: “I mean, with your teeth, I think you’d be able to protect yourself easily from zombie attacks, but I was wondering about other stuff.”

“Like what?” Daryl asks. He’s not exactly sure what zombies are, but he supposes he can ask Jesus about it later, if it doesn’t become apparent from Rick’s words somehow. 

“Well… food, for example,” Rick replies thoughtfully. “You need high amounts, don’t you? I’d wager, your dietary needs include insane amounts of protein and fatty acids. It wouldn’t be so easily obtained in a zombie apocalypse. Any foods would be scarce.”

“I can go without for a long time though,” Daryl supplies. “An’ I’m a great hunter. Could track an’ kill a doe as a pup, so’s not a problem now neither. S’long as there’s animals in woods, I’m fine. Also, I know how to use weapons. Got my crossbow. Could show ya how to use it later.”

“Okay,” Rick agrees, smiling. “What about your other physiological needs? Do you sleep a lot? Do you need to get in the water to breathe from time to time, or is that optional?”

Daryl has to consider the questions for a minute. “Optional, I think. Uh… went years without it, it sucked, but I managed. And errr, sleep’s normal I guess? Three or four hours every coupl’a days?”

Rick blinks. “Don’t know how to tell you this, but  _ normal sleeping patterns _ include at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep each night,” he says carefully. 

Daryl shrugs. He guessed that himself. Since he hardly ever dreams, he supposes such excessive amounts of sleep would be redundant for him. A waste of time, for sure. His body rests well enough when he swims, anyway, the additional time sleeping in the human manner can’t be doing a lot for him. Did he sleep more back in Georgia, when he was far away from the ocean or its substitutes? He may have, now that he thinks about it. His body had to compensate for the loss of its primary source of energy replenishment by making him more human-like in that regard.

Tina brings the burger for Rick, and the buffalo wings and onion rings for Daryl.

“Abe says the steaks won’t be for another twenty minutes,” she warns.

Daryl nods. “Won’t complain or nothin’,” he promises, and waits for the girl to scurry away before he picks a wing from his plate. He drops it casually in his mouth and chews, and only too late remembers he’s not supposed to be eating the bones.

Rick looks at him warmly. “Go ahead. I don’t mind the crunching noises, if that’s what’s stopping you,” he reassures.

“Won’t it be suspicious if I don’t leave ‘em bones on the plate?” Daryl asks, frowning.

“Well, we can always make a show of dumping  _ them _ into the bin,” Rick replies simply, motioning towards the nearby trash can with his hand. “Don’t let such silly things stop you from enjoying your food. We’re on a date, remember? I want you to enjoy yourself.”

So Daryl decides to throw caution to the wind, as they say, and goes about eating the wings carelessly. He only pauses when the waitress carries over his steaks, and he notes how the girl seems to busy checking Rick out to notice the missing chicken bones. Daryl’s not the jealous type, seriously, but he hates how women seem to enjoy the sight of his mate a bit too much. To remedy the situation, he takes an onion ring and holds it out to Rick.

“Try one,” he offers with a smile. He licks his lips appealingly.

He’s probably much too satisfied with himself when Rick immediately takes a bite of the ring straight from his hand. He also likes the appreciative noise the man makes, and the angry shade of red Tina flushes when she realizes she absolutely cannot have Rick to herself. 

Daryl makes a mental note to leave the girl a generous tip as consolation.

In comparison to him, Rick eats very slowly and, well, daintily. He takes careful bites of his burger. At least he doesn’t do any of that knife-and-fork bullshit some people do; Daryl can’t understand how it can be somehow preferable to cut a burger up into tiny pieces and eat it with a fork like some cutlet or something. Not that he’d eat a cutlet with a fork if he wasn’t forced to it, either. Carol sometimes calls him a barbarian for his feeding habits, but it’s usually very affectionate and all that. 

The point is, Rick finishes the last of his fries at about the same time Daryl’s done with two out of his three rib-eye steaks. Daryl offers him some of his meat, but the man politely refuses.

“Not everyone’s a shark,” he reminds Daryl playfully, and he spends the next fifteen minutes watching Daryl eat. He does steal a few more onion rings when he thinks Daryl’s not looking, though. 

For some reason, Rick insists on paying for the meal. Daryl understands it as a male’s need to prove he’s capable of providing for his mate, which is the only reason he allows it. There’s no need to provide for him, of course, he’s probably more sufficient at securing food and amenities than Rick could ever hope to be, but it’s the thought that counts. And to be honest, Daryl likes to be taken care of, he discovers. Perhaps he doesn’t particularly enjoy the fussy worried sort Carol always seems to drown him in, but he likes how Rick does things for him. It’s nice. Gives him a soft, fuzzy feeling inside his chest. 

“You’re smiling too wide,” Rick tells him as they walk down the street towards where Rick’s renting the house. 

“Uh,” Daryl says. He blinks, then closes his mouth, embarrassed for how easily he let his guard down.

“Is that because of me? Are you enjoying our date?” Rick asks, squeezing his hand. 

It’s impossible not to say  _ yes  _ to that, so Daryl does, squeezing back just as lightly. He’s never been so happy before, and he almost can’t believe how everything seems to be going so well for him. Sure, there are downsides to everything; he regrets that Joe had to die, and he definitely hates the whole Eric-Aaron-Jesus situation, plus the orca stuff gives him a headache. But he’s got Rick. Rick, who could do so much better than some half-assed shark-human hybrid that makes no sense to anyone, and yet for some reason, he chose Daryl, too. 

They’re almost at Rick’s place when they encounter the well-dressed stranger Daryl met before. Today, the man’s wearing casual clothes again, jeans and a black leather jacket, which Daryl thinks is a bit weird since Rick’s dressed in short sleeves and seems hot rather than cold. Then again, he knows humans take differently to temperatures, so he’s not about to judge. 

“Yo, Rick,” the stranger calls, grinning. 

Rick frowns, then blinks and a hesitant smile appears on his face. “Hello,” he greets politely. Daryl can’t help but notice that his hand begins to sweat. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well, I live ‘round here. Guess I never mentioned that,” the stranger says, shrugging. “How’s the writing going? Anything new for me?”

Rick shakes his head. “Not yet, you’ve got to be patient. You’re going to love it, though, I promise,” he replies, laughing. It sounds forced to Daryl, but maybe he’s being paranoid. He can’t help that his own instincts seem to go on overload around the stranger; he’s forcing down the fight-or-flight response even as Rick engages in small talk with the guy. 

Finally, the stranger says, “I won’t be keeping you, gentlemen. I can see where I’m not welcome,” and he winks, motioning towards Daryl and Rick’s joined hands. 

“No worries, man. It’s real good to see you,” Rick assures. 

“Likewise. Gotta say, you’re my favorite,” the stranger announces. He makes a sudden movement: he lifts his hand and invades Rick’s personal space with it, pats him on the cheek like he thinks he’s entitled to touch. He doesn’t even seem to notice the death glare Daryl sends his way. 

Instead, he offers Daryl a vaguely satisfied smirk. “Perhaps we’ll see each other at the beach again, Mr. Dixon,” he says, obviously referencing that time they cleaned up the trash together. 

Daryl scowls, but doesn’t say anything. He continues to observe the stranger with narrowed eyes, watchful in case the man tries to touch his mate again. Thankfully, nothing like that happens, Rick and the stranger say their goodbyes, the stranger leaves, and Daryl can breathe again.

“What was that about?” Rick asks once they’re far enough away that Daryl can’t even smell the oppressive scent of the stranger’s cologne. He seems less confused than the situation warrants, though, like he sort of expected Daryl’s reaction.

Daryl huffs. “Dude’s weird,” he mutters. He tells Rick about that time at the beach, to which Rick blinks. 

“I didn’t expect him to care that much about the eco-stuff,” he says thoughtfully. 

“How’d ya know him anyway?” Daryl asks. 

“Oh, yeah, you wouldn’t know. He’s my publisher. Well, an agent of my publisher. My agent,” Rick explains. “He’s one of the best, even though he’s kind of prick, to be honest. The name’s Negan.”

_ Negan,  _ Daryl thinks, making a mental note to remember the name. He’ll look the guy up on the Internets, or, more likely, he’ll ask Jesus to. There’s something weird about him. Something he doesn’t want around Rick if he can help it. His instincts are hardly ever wrong about that sort of thing. He’s not going to risk Rick’s safety just on the off-chance that he’s really seeing stuff that’s not there. He needs to protect his mate at all cost. Even from a publishing agent who seems harmless enough and devotes his mornings to picking up trash at the local beach.

It’s only much later that night when he’s back at his tiny apartment in the Institute that Daryl realizes something about the encounter that didn’t seem quite right, but he couldn’t put a finger to it at the time: he’d never told that Negan dude his name. He asks himself -  _ How the fuck does he even know me? -  _ but try as he might, he can’t seem to find an answer that would make sense. He endeavors to ask around the Institute in the morning: maybe somebody here knows Negan, maybe his apparent familiarity with Daryl’s name isn’t as out of the blue as it seems. 

Or maybe it is, and in that case… well, Daryl’s definitely going to get all the more suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies that I don't really reply to everyone's comments lately. It's not because I don't want to; it's because I become terrified of sounding dumb in my replies and worry myself out of any interaction with human beings here or anywhere else. Sorry about that! The comments are still treasured, I love that y'all seem to still be enjoying this story (and the other stories I've written and shared). I hope I'll get over this irrational fear soon, and will be able to reply to comments again!


	20. Chapter 20

On the second day of his somewhat-forced vacation, Daryl is asked very nicely to maybe come and lead a tour around the facility after all. 

“I mean… I know it’s your off-time, I know,” Eric says, looking very sheepish and apologetic as he stands there in the middle of Daryl’s apartment. He’s trying very hard to ignore the fact that Daryl is also standing, quite naked except for a towel he mercifully wrapped around his middle, with a toothbrush in his mouth.

“But it’s a group from DC, and governor Blake asked for you specifically. Apparently his daughter really enjoyed the tour with you.”

“She’s a good kid,” Daryl mutters. He remembers the little girl with braces on her teeth. She certainly wasn’t a spoiled pup of a politician, from what he recalls. It’s a good thing. 

He thinks he might be getting soft, but whatever. He supposes leading a bunch of stuffy old men around the Institute won’t hurt him none, as long as he doesn’t have to be exceedingly nice to them. He’s not a nice guy, period. He’s a tough bastard. Whoever thinks otherwise is wrong.

“You’re the best,” Eric says to Daryl’s agreement, brightening visibly. “I’ll buy you lunch after, okay?”

“Ain’t doin’ it for a reward,” Daryl huffs. He’s not like, a trick dog or something. He doesn’t need to be given treats in exchange for doing someone a favor.

Damn, he’s being grumpy. He doesn’t even know why; maybe because he hasn't seen Rick yet today? Must be it. At least he’s got texts on his phone which prove beyond any shadow of doubt that Rick misses him too, so he’s not the only one in this relationship who’s pining like a loser. 

It’s strange, Daryl thinks, how his life has changed so much in only a matter of days - weeks? He’s not sure - since he met Rick. It feels like before, he was just drifting with the current, floating in the water, letting it carry him like a particularly lazy jellyfish. He didn’t really  _ want  _ anything. He was perfectly content just existing in the same space as his friends, shark and otherwise. Every day was basically the same, and it was okay, he didn’t expect nor desire anything new. Eating a large meal and swimming with Henry and Lydia were the highlights of his days. 

And then Rick marched into the Institute, with his blue eyes and maddeningly good scent, and Daryl’s whole life realigned itself around him. 

“You know, it’s easy to tell when you think about your Rick,” Eric observes. “You’ve got this soft smile on your face. Like you’re daydreaming about something pleasant.”

Daryl scoffs. “Ain’t daydreamin’ nothin’,” he mutters, but he knows he’s only being defensive to hide the obvious weakness. Not that he needs to; Eric is not a threat to him, never was, never will be. He’s a better friend Daryl thinks he deserves, to be honest. He’s right there next to Carol, at the top of Daryl’s private hierarchy of favorite people. 

“I wonder, what kind of man is he? I mean, I’ve never seen you so smitten before, so I’m curious,” Eric says. “Let’s do a double-date. You with your Rick, me with Aaron and- Uh, me with Aaron.”

Daryl frowns a little at the stutter, but he shrugs. A double-date sounds interesting, and he can’t think of a better way to have Rick meet his friends. Like, really meet them. A restaurant or a pub, hell, even a park would definitely make for a much cozier environment for proper introductions than the infirmary at the Institute. Plus, Aaron and Eric might know a lot of stuff that could prove useful for Rick’s new book. Research takes a lot of time and both men are like walking encyclopaedias on sharks; not only that, but they’re also very happy to share their knowledge. Aaron even used to work as a lecturer for some time, when he was doing his post-grad. 

Yeah. A double-date sounds better with every passing moment.

“For now though, let’s concentrate on getting through the tour, okay?” Eric says. His worrywart attitude sometimes makes Daryl impatient, but he supposes this time he can forgive it. He recognizes how important it is to make a good impression on influential people whose good mood might mean additional research funding. 

“Should I wear a suit?” Daryl asks, looking down at himself quite critically. He owns a suit, Carol insisted that every man should have one, so that wouldn’t be much of a problem; he’s just not sure if it would actually look any good on him. He thinks it might be somewhat ridiculous, like dressing a shark in a onesie. And no matter what, he’s not wearing a tie. The only semi-constricting thing he can accept around his neck is his shark tooth necklace. 

Eric seems to have trouble picturing him in a suit, too. He squints at Daryl critically, then shakes his head. “No, no,” he decides. “Better be natural. If you’re uncomfortable, you might get huffy and we don’t want that.”

“... Shut up, I don’t get huffy,” Daryl protests huffily. 

Then, he thinks twice about what he just said, and sighs. “Okay, I might be,” he agrees grudgingly. “‘s not gonna be a problem though. I know the rules. No cussin’, no grinnin’, no murder talk. Same drill as always, jus’ a hell lotta niceties too ‘cause politicians.”

“You don’t even need to be too nice,” Eric promises, patting him on the arm. “Just be you. The professional you. Just how we taught you. I know you’re going to be great.”

And so, Daryl gets ready for his tour with the added pressure of Eric’s expectations he isn’t willing to disappoint. He puts on his nice jeans with no holes or tears and a t-shirt with the Institute logo he’s pretty sure looks very professional. He foregoes the leather jacket because it’s rather warm outside; it wouldn’t bother him, temperature really never does, but it might seem weird. He brushes his hair but doesn’t do anything special with it, puts on his necklace and heads out to the lobby to wait for his group for the day.

He doesn’t have to wait long at all. He only has time to exchange a few pleasantries with the new receptionist before Profesor King comes in, followed by a group of six people. There’s only one woman. Daryl knows her: Deanna Monroe is a member of the Congress, but before she was elected, she used to be the Governor here in Virginia. She’s possibly the biggest ally the Institute has ever had among the influential people of the US. Then there’s her husband Reginald who works for the Environmental Protection Agency. Daryl’s seen him a few times, accompanying Deanna, but that’s it; they haven’t spoken face to face before. Daryl greets them with a very polite  _ good morning. _

The others are complete strangers to Daryl. Professor King quickly introduces Daryl to them, and the four men seem eager to meet him for some unfathomable reason. Three of them introduce themselves with names which don’t mean a lot to Daryl whatsoever - Jenkins, Singh and Petersky - and Daryl tries to maintain the professional attitude expected of him as he shakes their hands.

“My daughter Penny loved the tour,” the fourth guy says. He looks young, perhaps a bit older than Daryl, but not by much. He’s dressed in a tan suit and a light blue shirt, and it gives him a sort of youthful appeal which Daryl supposes might be popular among voters. Or maybe not. To be honest, Daryl knows very little about politics in general, at least where it’s nothing to do with the Institute and its funding. It seems like a waste of time to learn about it all, when all the big fish of the politics ever seem to do is argue about shit, start wars around the world, and care less about about oceanic pollution than they should.

But this guy - governor Blake, apparently - he doesn’t seem so bad. Daryl likes him more than the others if only because the man doesn’t try to shake his hand.

“‘twas fun havin’ Penny around. Asked a lotta questions and seemed eager to learn. Best kinda visitor right there,” Daryl admits, and the governor beams.

He appears to be the kind of man who’s insanely proud of his pup. A bit like Rick, Daryl notes to himself, though obviously, the governor isn’t quite as pretty or interesting as Rick. Doesn’t smell as good either.

… In fact, he smells strange. Familiar, though. But somehow alarming.

“As much as I could talk about my Penny for hours, I won’t be monopolizing your attention, Mr. Dixon,” governor Blake says in a friendly tone, to which the others laugh and Daryl smiles thinly in an attempt to be polite. He wonders if bad sense of humor is required to become a politician, or if they simply all dislike each other so much they can’t even come up with actual funny jokes around each other and just laugh at whatever.

This is exactly why Daryl thinks he’s so shit at human interactions. Everything is so conditional. You act one way in front of people you like, another way with people you don’t, but in some cases, you gotta pretend that you actually like someone when you don’t. It’s all fake smiles, careful words and dishonesty. It’s so much simpler to be a shark. The hierarchy in the deep is simple: you got to defer to the biggest female, but besides that, there are no rules. Eating is easy, swimming is easy. There’s not much room for likes or dislikes. 

Well, the thing is, Daryl may long for that simplicity, but he’s not a fish. He’s more human than not, and he’s got work to do. 

“I’ll leave you gentlemen - my lady - in Mr. Dixon’s capable hands,” Professor King says by means of excusing himself, and Daryl takes it as his cue to begin the tour.

He’s never had a group of adults before, so he’s not exactly sure how to appeal to their interest in the tanks. Jokes that work on pups might fall flat on politicians, so Daryl decides on a more serious approach. 

In front of the Blue tank, he asks his audience: “Now to begin with, what do y’all know ‘bout sharks?”

Deanna chuckles and says, “Way to make us all feel like school kids again, Mr. Dixon!” She sounds amused, though, not annoyed, so Daryl counts that as a positive reaction.

“I’m afraid my only knowledge comes from Shark Week on Discovery Channel,” Jenkins says apologetically. He’s a man in mid-fifties, works for the Ministry of Agriculture. The suit he’s wearing looks like it’s seen better times, or at least times when the man inside it was considerably smaller. He’s also sweating a lot which is understandable in summer, even though it’s not very hot inside the Institute’s walls. 

He’s looks a bit like a walrus. Makes Daryl think if a shark would eat him. Though, to be fair, sharks don’t prey on walruses. They don’t even inhabit the same waters, walruses like the cold arctic seas which Great Whites don’t favor. Orcas, though? They’d eat a walrus alright.

“Better that than Jaws,” Daryl says to the man, smiling in what he hopes comes across as reassurance. “Shark Week may not always be paintin’ the right picture, but is sure more accurate in some stuff than horror movies.”

“Mr. Blake here is telling us that sharks are fascinating creatures, as long as one gets to know them,” says Singh. He’s the only dark-skinned person among the visitors, and he looks comfortable in the suit and tie. He’s also wearing a sort of hat? Something? A head accessory Daryl isn’t familiar with. The others don’t pay any attention to it, so Daryl decides to ask Eric about that particular fashion choice later. 

“Mr. Blake’s right,” he says in reply to the man’s claim. “An’ I’m hopin’ to show you that.”

During the course of the tour, Daryl finds out that adults are, in some aspects, easier to awe than children. Daryl goes to show them, with positive results, the juvenile blacktip reef sharks, and explains how they’re going to grow to be over five feet long. He points to the life-sized mural of a Megalodon in one of the hallways and says how that’s not even the largest recorded one because of the space limitations of the Institute. He talks a little about the way sharks communicate, without disclosing much of his own experience with it; he bases the mini-lecture on what Carol’s told him about the body language of Mako sharks.

The politicians also seem to love Captain Flint the Oceanic whitetip shark, who swims past the front of his tank twice before he heads back towards his ship. Daryl takes the opportunity to explain how the most vicious shark attacks in history are most likely courtesy of the Oceanic whitetips, and how other species get unfairly blamed. Hell; he’s going to take every chance to try and convince people that Great Whites aren’t evil.

He then listens to Mr. Monroe discussing the possible etymology of the  _ requiem sharks  _ family name with governor Blake. Even between the staff members here at the Institute, there’s no agreement whether the name comes from French and means rest and death, or if it’s from German and means something like a grimace with bared teeth. Daryl likes both. He also likes how the French name for shark is  _ requin, _ though that’s probably unrelated.

“Well, the name does sound ominous regardless of the origin,” Blake concludes. 

“Yes,  _ requiem  _ has some morbid connotations,” agrees the walrus - uh, Jenkins. “Isn’t that also something to do with classical music? Mozart, I think, had a very famous requiem?”

Daryl doesn’t know a thing about classical music and he’s got no idea who Mozart is, so he lets the politicians talk among themselves for a bit. He excuses himself for a second to check with Jesus about the whereabouts of Henry and Lydia. Turns out, the two sharks aren’t extremely busy with each other right now and Lydia is quite close by the tubular visitor area, so Daryl leads the group to the Biter tank. 

“You might’ve heard, but our Institute’s managed to keep two Great Whites around for the last several months,” he announces with not a small amount of pride. “We’re the first in the world who got done that. Recently, we also became the first to have our two Great Whites mate while in captivity.”

“Congratulations,” Singh says and the others nod in agreement. 

“We’re lucky ‘cause the mating season ain’t over an’ done yet. Means the female is still around an’ I can show you,” Daryl adds, and does his sequence of pressing the feeding button and tapping on the glass which he hopes will attract Lydia to come closer.

It takes a while, but she does. Daryl takes a moment to inspect her while the group are busy admiring the giant shark. She’s got a few new scars around her midsection and there seems to be a small chunk of flesh missing above her dorsal fin, but those are all normal things in the process of mating. Daryl would like to check the damage in person, but he knows he won’t be able to do that at least until Lydia leaves for the warm shallows of the tank. Or until his own hormonal imbalance calms the fuck down. Whichever comes first.

There’s not much to say about the Great Whites, because just like the pups before them, the adults are mesmerized by the spectacle of Lydia swimming slowly, quite lazily, around the tube. Daryl still talks a little, general stuff like the way shark cartilaginous skeletons make them lighter and therefore help them swim better, or how a white shark can go through over thirty thousand teeth within its lifetime, or how the white shark’s eye is built with an additional layer of crystal-like cells which allow for better reflection of light in the deep sea. Jenkins adds something he heard in the Shark Week about the Great White’s exceptional sense of smell, so Daryl explains how the popular myth of sharks smelling a drop of blood from miles away is a definite exaggeration.

“They’re good at smelling things, though,” he admits. “It’s just not so straight-forward for ‘em. Scent don’t work for sharks the way it works for us. Their senses are more combined. Synesthesia, ‘s what it’s called. Smell together with sight an’ an electromagnetic impulse may be translated into a single thing, like a signal. For example, a seal smells oily, has a dark rounded shape, an’ splashes ‘round a lot. So these three things combined mean  _ seal.  _ ‘s how most of the time, Great Whites don’t attack humans even when swimmin’ next to ‘em. The signal ain’t right. Stuff ain’t addin’ up.”

“Some requiem sharks process stimuli the same way, don’t they?” Governor Blake asks.

“I think most of ‘em,” Daryl agrees. “Also some mammal species do that, too. Orcas make associations an’ though they can recognize stuff singularly, they tend to depend on known signals within pods.”

_ They’re also dangerous mother fuckers,  _ Daryl thinks but doesn’t say out loud. Blake’s face darkens when he mentions orcas, anyway, so he doesn’t draw out the subject.

After the Biter tank, Daryl leads the politicians to the cafeteria where the whole committee awaits to take over the visit. Professor King takes one look at the faces of the visitors - much more relaxed and lively than at the start, Daryl observes - and he offers Daryl a wide smile. 

“Good job,” he says discreetly, “and thanks for doing it on such a short notice.”

“‘s fine,” Daryl assures. “Wasn’t no problem.”

He means it. 

After some final pleasantries, Daryl’s finally allowed to excuse himself as the politicians go to have their meal. He already can’t wait to go to see Rick, maybe take him out on another date - or, to finally do things other than kissing with him. Unfortunately, though, he’s stopped by governor Blake.

“Your knowledge of sharks is really extensive,” the man says, smiling widely. It seems sincere. “Penny said you’re not actually a scientist?”

“Just someone likes ‘em sharks,” Daryl admits. 

“I had a lot of fun today,” Blake confesses. “I’ve been trying to spread the interest in sharks with my colleagues for a while, but it’s not easy. You may have just contributed to a great effort. The more politicians know about these majestic creatures, the more we can lobby for new laws to protect the oceans.”

“‘s good,” Daryl says. “Listen, uh. I gotta plans, an’ y’all got that lunch an’ shit,” he mutters. 

Blake blinks, then nods, still smiling. He takes a step closer towards Daryl, and Daryl inhales the man’s scent. 

He finally recognizes why the scent was familiar earlier, and yet so strange. The governor doesn’t smell like a human. He smells like the ocean, that deepwater combination of salt, iodine and sulphur; Daryl has almost no doubt that if he licked the man’s skin, it would taste like seaweed and algae, like fish scales and foam on top of the waves. Not that he wants to. 

Governor Blake smells like he wants him to, though. That’s familiar, too. It’s the same kind of scent of arousal that Rick carries around him. On the governor, though, it’s sour, bitter, almost pungent. Daryl doesn’t want anything to do with it.

Blake says, “Maybe we could talk later, then? How about dinner downtown? I saw a steakhouse-”

“No,” Daryl replies curtly. He takes a step back, then another when the man follows, like he’s trying to crowd him into a corner. 

“You sure? I know what you are,” the governor murmurs, low and threatening. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. But you could only benefit from a closer relationship with me. After all, lone fish get eaten…”

“Ain’t  _ fuckin’  _ interested,” Daryl spits out, and shoves the man away.

He doesn’t wait for a reaction - he runs. Fortunately, Blake doesn’t give chase, and Daryl hides away in Eric and Aaron’s quarters.  _ What the hell just happened, _ he wonders. How could the governor from Georgia, someone who never met him before - how could he know about Daryl’s true nature? Unless he’s not what he seems, too. Unless…

“He’s the orca,” Daryl says when Eric comes back. 

Eric doesn’t even seem that surprised to see him. “Daryl, calm down and breathe,” he instructs. “Now, who do you mean? Who’s the orca?”

Daryl shakes his head. “‘s stupid,” he mutters, “y’all ain’t gonna believe me. But I’m right. I know I’m right.”

“Well, tell me,” Eric demands. 

“Blake. He’s got ‘em brown eyes, ya noticed? An’ he smells like the sea. Plus he as good as fuckin’ told me. It’s him.”

Eric blinks, then walks towards the table, grabs a glass, turns to the sink, pours water into the glass and gulps it down. He sets the glass back on the table and sighs.

“I’ll try to investigate him,” he promises seriously. “But I don’t know, Daryl. He’s a politician. You really think someone like you would do well in the spotlight?”

Daryl scowls. “He ain’t like me. He’s a damn monster. Don’cha get it? This whole thing, ‘s like his idea of fun. Stalkin’ me, now revealin’ hisself, sayin’ he wanna be friends. ‘s a game to him. Well it ain’t a game to me.”

“Okay, okay,” Eric gives in. “I understand what you’re saying. You’re safe on land though, aren’t you? If his double nature works in any way like yours, then he wouldn’t be able to really hunt you on land. Plus, he wouldn’t want to, because your liver isn’t as nutritious when you’re more human than shark.”

“So, what? We know it’s him, but I still can’t go swimmin’? This shit sucks, man,” Daryl grumbles. 

But he’s calmer now. At least Eric knows now. Eric might not have the same sort of power as a governor who’s also a killer whale, but he’s a scientist. Maybe there’s a way to neutralize the threat without like, exterminating the predator. Maybe Eric can invent something to make Blake’s interest in eating Daryl go away. Like, pheromones. Or stuff. Eric is smart, he’ll be able to do something about this whole shitty situation. Daryl trusts him.

“Sorry, been actin’ dumb,” he apologizes. 

“It’s okay,” Eric assures. “You’re under a lot of stress. And you’re missing your Rick, aren’t you? I think you should go see him. And make out with him, I mean, kiss a lot. Maybe some more things, if you’re ready. I can see how much tension you’re harboring, and Daryl, that won’t go away unless you find a way to resolve it. I’m not saying  _ have sex with your man… _ but perhaps you should consider having sex with your man. I’ll handle the orca problem, so don’t worry about it for now. You go and have your vacation.”

And that? That’s the best kind of advice Daryl thinks he could’ve gotten right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter... stuff 'n things? Finally? Is Daryl ready for that? Is Rick?   
So many questions.


	21. Chapter 21

Rick’s scent has a calming ability that nothing else in the world seems to have, at least not when it comes to Daryl. A few minutes with Rick's scent filling his nose and his lungs, and Daryl's already almost forgotten all about any prowling orcas, perverted governors, and other kinds of trouble.

“You do this a lot, this _ sniffing me _ thing,” Rick notes. He’s sitting on the sofa with a thick book in his hand, leafing through the pages for some very specific tidbit of information which he apparently can’t seem to find. 

Daryl makes a low rumbling sound into Rick’s abdomen where he’s currently pressing his face. He’s sprawled across the sofa with his arms wrapped around Rick’s waist. It’s nice. Rick pets him from time to time by running his fingers through Daryl’s long hair, and he doesn’t seem to mind that Daryl sometimes inhales deeply, very obviously smelling him. 

“Do you do this because you like how I smell, or is it something more? Animals use scenting as means for chemical communication,” Rick says, stroking behind Daryl’s ear, like one might pet a cat. 

It’s pleasant. Daryl doesn’t mind being likened to a cat like this. Cats are a bit like sharks, anyway. They’re also predators with pointy teeth, always hungry, carnivorous, kinda cute. 

“Smellin’ nice,” he murmurs lazily into the fabric covering Rick’s belly. The flesh there is a little squishy, but when Daryl presses his nose into it, he can feel the firm muscle underneath the thin layer of fat. Not especially appetizing. He concludes no shark in their right mind would eat Rick. 

Bite him, though? Mmmm. Yeah.

“I thought I was due for a shower,” Rick says and chuckles when Daryl’s hold around him tightens. “Okay, okay, I get it. You like me after I’ve been stewing in my own sweat for the entire day.”

“Always like ya,” Daryl assures him, looking up. “An’ ya always smell nice. ‘specially when ya want me. Ya smell like chocolate an’ pepper then.”

“Do I?” Rick asks in a deep voice which sounds about the same as the best dark chocolate tastes. Daryl can’t help but lift himself up and kiss him right here and now, so he does. Fortunately, Rick doesn’t seem to mind.

He’s actually been very agreeable to Daryl’s presence right from the moment Daryl knocked on his door two hours ago. Even though he had no forewarning about Daryl’s visit, he took it as something completely natural. He invited Daryl inside, offered him a snack of some fresh fish he apparently bought earlier today in the harbor, and basically told him to treat the place as his own.

“I’ve been trying to do some research for my book,” he explained before he seated himself comfortably on that sofa, and he seemed to have nothing against Daryl joining him there. 

He probably already anticipated how Daryl’s presence would make it difficult to concentrate on anything research-related, judging by the fact he easily gives up on his book. He pushes the thick tome onto the coffee table, missing the mark by a fair bit, and he ignores the thudding noise when the book falls to the floor; he’s too busy kissing Daryl to care for such trifles. Or at least Daryl thinks that’s why. 

“Mmmm. You taste nice, too,” he says softly, pulling away only enough to lick on Rick’s lower lip. 

The man chuckles. “Well you taste like raw fish,” he counters, but there’s no hint in his face nor his tone that he’s disgusted by it. “It’s a bit like eating sushi. Only less salty.”

Daryl blinks. “You’d like it salty?” He asks. His thoughts flash back to that time he was exploring his body’s sexual reactions for the first time; he remembers that the liquid he produced while he experienced that _ orgasm _thing, it was salty. Would Rick like it? Is it actually something people consume from each other? 

Damn, he should’ve asked about it. Why does he always forget to ask Eric about important shit? Perhaps he should start writing things down instead of making mental notes about them. What he’s doing doesn’t seem to be working.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking me right now,” Rick says, and sounds amused. “Judging by how you’re blushing, I’d say you’re being very naughty. Are you?”

“... I dunno,” Daryl admits shyly. “D’ya want me to be naughty?”

Rick kisses him, gently, chastely, just by ways of pressing his lips against Daryl’s. “I want you to be happy and comfortable,” he says. “And somehow, I don’t think you really understand what _ naughty _means in this context.”

Daryl hums in reply and looks away, not willing to admit that Rick’s right. Another thing he should’ve asked about, when he had a chance. It seems so weird… so awkward, honestly, to ask Rick about this shit. Daryl feels like a little pup and he doesn’t like it. He wants to be able to impress his mate, not to be seen as completely inexperienced in the matters of exuality. Even though that’s true. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Rick says. He waits until Daryl looks at him again before continuing. “It’s okay that you don’t know things. I know your situation isn’t so easy. Your friend Eric mentioned something about mixed physiology, and I get that. You’re human and shark, both. If you like, I’m willing to listen about what it means, exactly. Before we do anything else. So we can proceed with full clarity and don’t inadvertently hurt each other.”

It’s reasonable, Daryl decides, and he’s glad Rick is so much smarter than him. Otherwise, it would be much more difficult to handle the finer points of their relationship. Because RIck’s right: there are things they need to discuss before they start doing anything intimate.

He supposes he should start.

“Umm, my skin becomes rough when it’s wet,” he says tentatively. “Dunno how wet ’s gotta be, though. Happens when I’m sweaty from stuff like carryin’ boxes or shit.”

“How rough?” Rick asks. 

Daryl settles back into his sprawled position on the sofa, propping his head against Rick’s thigh. He supplies, “Rough enough to hurt ya,” and sighs. “‘s like sandpaper. Ain’t never happenin’ with sweetwater, though, only saltwater, an’ sweat I guess.”

“Alright, I can work with that,” Rick decides. “Does that mean your skin _ everywhere _becomes rough?”

“Uh, no,” Daryl replies. “My, my bits… I mean. My _ penis _don’t get like that. Inner thighs neither. Uhh, neck an’ abdomen do, but not as rough as the rest. Not enough to hurt ya.” 

“Interesting,” Rick decides. “So your more typically erogenous areas seem to be fine for me to touch even when wet. Good, opens up some interesting options.”

_ What interesting options, _Daryl thinks, and he regrets he never graduated past the “stroking his penis” part of sexual self-exploration. The first thing he’s going to do when he’s back at the Institute: he’s gonna make Jesus lend him a laptop, and he’s watching porn. Lots of it. All kinds. For their educational valors. 

“Okay, moving along,” Rick says. “Are there any major anatomical differences I should know about? I mean, I had a glimpse of you naked,” he pauses, and Daryl smiles when he notices the man blush. It’s so cute. Rick can be so cute.

But to answer his question: “Eric said ain’t nothin’ major.”

Rick blinks, confused. The movement of his fingers brushing through Daryl’s hair halts. “_ Eric _said? And why would Eric know what you look like naked?” He asks, and Daryl is immediately able to smell the jealousy that’s also reflected in his voice. The possessive quality of Rick’s personality should worry him… but it doesn’t. It makes him feel warmth spread all over, instead. Especially between his legs.

“Eric is a biologist. ‘s like with a doctor with him,” he assures his mate. “He ain’t never touched me inappropriate or nothin’. Just looked. I told ya… I’m naked a lot. I been told ‘s not normal, but ‘s what’s normal to me, so.”

“I don’t like it,” Rick mutters, and Daryl chuckles.

“I’ll try not to get naked in front of no-one but yerself,” he promises with what he thinks is a teasing lilt in his voice. He’s pretty sure that constitutes as _ flirting, _as far as his memory serves: it seemed to work in rom-coms, at least. “That acceptable?”

“Yes,” Rick agrees, and he begins to rub small circles right above Daryl’s temples again. 

“One more thing,” Daryl murmurs. He’s becoming sleepy from the nice, lazy atmosphere. 

“Mmmm?” Rick inquires in a soft hum.

Daryl licks his lips. “Bitin’,” he says. “Shark couplin’ can get very violent ‘cause they bite each other lots.”

“Do you feel the urge to bite me, then?” Rick asks. He seems a little worried. No wonder: he’s seen what Daryl’s teeth are capable of. After all, Daryl killed a full-sized bull shark for him by biting it to death. It would be weird if the prospect of Daryl biting him didn’t make Rick apprehensive.

“Yeah, like you got no idea,” Daryl admits. “But yer skin’s too soft an’ I don’t wanna hurt you. I can just, bite myself instead, like on the arm ‘stead of bitin’ you. ‘s long as ya bite me some.”

“Okay. I can do that,” Rick says. “Can’t say I’ve ever been into that, but I’m flexible. I don’t know if my teeth are sharp enough to draw blood, though. You fine with that?”

“Sure. Ain’t ‘bout no blood. ‘s about the bitin’. Got enough scars without no new marks, anyway. Just… bein’ bitten means belongin’. Means ya claim me, an’ want me, an’... dunno, things,” Daryl explains. He can feel his face become warm with a flush at the words leaving his mouth, but he doesn’t hate it this time. He remembers that Rick finds it endearing. 

Rick smiles down at him. “You like the thought of being mine, don’t you?” He asks. Daryl can’t help but smile back. 

“Kiss me,” he demands. 

Rick chuckles. “Oh, I don’t know,” he teases. “Were you a good boy? Do you deserve a reward?”

Daryl frowns. “Ain’t a dog,” he protests. It’s the second time someone’s made that comparison today, and Daryl’s not sure he likes that. 

To his surprise, Rick blushes and bites his lower lip. “Sorry,” the man apologizes, ashamed. “It’s… I wasn’t really,” he mutters. “I, uh. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… something people say? It was supposed to be sexy, not offensive or anything…”

It’s Daryl’s turn to be embarrassed now. “Dunno much ‘bout bein’ sexy an’ shit,” he mumbles. Fuck, but he’s high-maintenance. He won’t be surprised if Rick becomes fed up with him sooner or later. He can somehow tolerate the teeth, the weird biting thing, perhaps even some of Daryl’s complete obliviousness, but eventually, his patience is gonna run out and Daryl will end up alone. He’s not sure how he’s going to survive it, even though he’s already sort of mentally preparing himself for this inevitable outcome. 

Doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen today, though, because Rick just shakes his head and resumes his gentle brushing of Daryl’s hair with warm fingers. He licks his lips.

“I keep forgetting it’s all new to you,” he says softly. “You’re so effortlessly gorgeous, I keep forgetting you don’t even know what you’re doing to me just by being here.”

“I… kinda know,” Daryl admits. “Can smell it. Told ya, didn’t I? Like the way you smell. Keep wonderin’...” He trails off, thoughtful and just a bit shy.

“What?” Rick asks, curious. “You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

Daryl sits up. He thinks, if the conversation goes where he hopes it’s going, it’s going to be much more convenient that he’s upright. The loss of Rick’s fingers in his hair is tragic, of course, but sacrifices must be made for better gain. 

He licks his lips. “Been wonderin’ how good ya smell… y’know. Up close. Everywhere,” he mutters. It’s weird how awkward he gets when talking about this kind of intimacy to Rick. For someone who’d rather walk around butt-naked all the time, Daryl knows he’s got some pretty strange hang-ups when it comes to sexual stuff. Might be because he’s still so green in the area. He wishes he wasn’t. He wishes he was as self-confident around his mate as he can be with Jesus or Aaron or Eric. 

At least he’s reasonably certain getting naked in front of Rick wouldn’t be a problem. It’s asking Rick to get naked for him that’s making him so nervous. He worries how he’s going to react to his mate without the unnecessary barrier the layers of clothing create. He was almost overwhelmed that one time when Rick’s unbuttoned shirt showed off a lot of chest. Seeing him fully naked might make him spontaneously combust. 

Rick doesn’t seem to have the same worries whatsoever. He gently rubs Daryl’s cheek with his thumb, like he’s drawing his attention, and Daryl feels an already familiar sort of warmth pooling down in his abdomen when he meets Rick’s eyes. The man smiles, a crooked, somewhat wicked little smirk, and begins to unbutton his shirt. Daryl can’t help but follow the motion of his fingers as they pop the buttons through the holes one after another. Rick pulls the tails of the shirt from the waistband of his jeans and finishes unbuttoning it, then lets it fall open and slide down his arms. 

Daryl never considered anything _ erotic _ before, wasn’t even sure what the word meant - but now he does. He _ fucking _does.

He’s staring, he realizes, but he can’t help it. He’s also drooling, just a little, and as soon as he becomes aware of that, he quickly swallows the excess saliva, which in turn makes him choke. Rick chuckles and puts hands on Daryl’s shoulders, steadying him through the short coughing fit; when Daryl’s done sputtering, Rick leans in to plant a sweet little kiss on his lips.

“Breathe,” he instructs, and Daryl exhales loudly, then inhales, and he groans when his nostrils fill with Rick’s scent. Before, even when Daryl’s head was in Rick’s lap, the smell was muffled by the cotton fabric of his shirt. Without the barrier, Daryl can breathe Rick in fully, and he does, leaning in to bury his face in the crook of the man’s neck. His heart is beating so loud he’s sure Rick can hear, blood is thrumming in his veins, his whole body grows unbearably hot - and Daryl wonders if it’s possible to have an orgasm just from smelling someone’s skin. He moans weakly and noses at Rick’s neck. He moves his face up to inhale the slightly sour scent behind Rick’s ear, then follows the humid trail a bead of sweat made downwards as it rolled slowly from Rick’s hair to his chest. 

He hears Rick gasp, and he licks his lips, humming in pleasure when his tongue accidentally catches on the skin over Rick’s collarbone. Rick tastes as good as he smells; the heady mixture of saltiness and sourness of sweat with that sweet aftertaste that’s specific to Rick alone makes Daryl’s mouth water. It makes his - his cock - makes it so hard it’s almost painful, and Daryl wants to bite down, hold on to Rick forever, to never let him go. He won’t, though, he won’t ever do anything to hurt Rick. Instead, he licks and sucks on the exposed skin, chasing the taste like he’s addicted, like he can only be truly complete with his mouth on any part of Rick’s body.

He groans when Rick pushes him away and presses him to lie on his back on the sofa; all thoughts of protesting leave his mind just a second later, though, when the man begins to strip him. Hurried hands push up his Institute-logo t-shirt and leave it there to move on to the buttons of Daryl’s jeans. Before Daryl can warn him, Rick’s already got the pants open and pulls them down Daryl’s hips.

He swears when he discovers Daryl’s got no underwear, a soft, rounded _ fuck _that sends a wave of want down Daryl’s spine. Rick works quickly to remove Daryl’s jeans fully before he sits back to admire Daryl’s nakedness, and there’s a look of absolute adoration on his face as he maps the hard plains of Daryl’s body first only with his eyes, then with a steady, warm hand.

“Rick,” Daryl says, and he can’t believe the airy, high-pitched whimper of the man’s name is actually his own voice. It’s happening, he thinks, it’s finally happening: Rick is touching him, and Daryl feels himself already coming apart under his mate’s gentle hands.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” Rick whispers hoarsely, then slides down from the sofa to kneel on the floor. He pulls Daryl into the position he wants him, legs spread apart and hooked securely on Rick’s shoulders; before Daryl has time to frown and ask what’s going on, Rick wraps a hand around his hard length and strokes slowly up and down.

_ “Rick,” _Daryl groans, and his hips buck upward almost of their own accord. 

“I’m going to show you everything,” Rick promises softly. His voice is deeper than normal and his scent is - darker, richer, fuller, changed by arousal so much it’s almost unrecognizable. Yet it’s still so unmistakably _ Rick, _ familiar and safe and beloved, and Daryl makes a semi-coherent noise that might be his mate’s name.

It’s so different to when Daryl was learning his body’s reactions on his own. Rick’s hand on him, Rick stroking him, Rick saying things to him in that desire-changed voice; everything feels heightened, Daryl’s senses become as sharp as when he’s in the water, and every slow tug on his length makes electric impulses run up his sides, up his spine and to the bundle of nerves at the base of his skull. It lights up in ways it never has before, not even when he learned to give himself pleasure; Rick makes Daryl’s whole body shiver and his mind burst with the brightest colors, and Daryl can’t form words, can’t stop him or beg for more, can’t-

“Gorgeous,” Rick whispers. Daryl looks down at him to see the man lick his lips, and then all of a sudden, Rick leans in and runs his tongue over the length of Daryl’s cock, from the tip down. Daryl moans, too loud even in his ears, but it doesn’t seem to bother Rick who does it again, then one more time; he kisses the tip, presses his tongue against it, laps up the wetness gathering there, and he doesn’t stop stroking up and down the entire length with warm fingers. Daryl doesn’t know what to do, how to react, doesn’t know if he wants this or if it terrifies him, and Rick doesn’t wait to let him figure it out. He pulls away a second, licks his lips again, and then leans in again and takes the tip into his mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Daryl chokes out; his hips jerk forward and he clenches his hands into fists, holding onto the pillows at the coach as Rick makes a soft, pleased noise in the back of his throat and begins to move his head up and down, his lips and tongue sliding along the length of Daryl’s cock, his fingers stroking what doesn’t fit into his mouth. 

If the previous touch was too much, this is- this is insanity, and Daryl doesn’t _ know, _doesn’t understand. He squeezes his eyes shut, bites down harshly on his lower lip, then lets go of it as the taste of his own blood fills his mouth and he can’t help but moan his desire; Rick seems to approve because he hums around his mouthful again, low and content, and the vibrations are too much: with a shuddering groan, Daryl gives in to his impending orgasm, and the wave of pleasure that rolls over him is enough to make him black out for a few seconds as his brain seems to explode with a feerie of hues.

When he’s able to process what’s happening again, Rick is back on the sofa with him, holding him against his chest in a loose embrace. Rick’s lips are pressed gently against the top of Daryl’s head, his arms are wrapped around Daryl’s middle, and he’s breathing steadily and even though Daryl didn’t get to touch him, he still smells _ satisfied. _ His scent is combined with Daryl’s own, creating a sweet-smelling mix, and Daryl sighs in contentment.

He can taste himself on Rick’s tongue when the man gives him a long, unhurried kiss.

“Love you,” he mumbles lazily. Unlike his earlier explorations, this thing that Rick did to him left him wrung out, exhausted beyond all reason. He feels like he might fall asleep, and then sleep for hours. His lower lip hurts a little where he bit right through it, but it’s not bleeding anymore so it must already be healing. 

“I’ve never had an orgasm quite like that,” Rick replies with a chuckle, and there’s something vaguely disbelieving in the way he says the words. “I didn’t even touch myself, I came in my pants. And I swear I saw stars.”

“‘s not how it should be?” Daryl asks. His own orgasm, after all, was positively _ explosive. _ He doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to go back to just exploring with his own hand, now that he had Rick touch him. Rick’s mouth. He had Rick’s mouth on him. _ Fuck. _

“I guess,” Rick says. “Gotta get used to things being different, with you,” he adds. He trails the scar on Daryl’s abdomen, the big, jagged one Henry gave him, with his finger. 

“I wanna do that to you,” Daryl decides after a moment of content silence. 

He feels Rick stiffen, but not in a good way. Not in his pants. “Ummm… I don’t think it’s a good idea. We don’t even know if you’d like it,” the man says, in an attempt to be diplomatic about the rejection. 

Daryl huffs. “I can be careful,” he assures. “With them teeth. I wanna taste you…”

But Rick shakes his head. “We’ll think about it later, okay? Let’s just relax right now. Feels good to lie down and do nothing, doesn’t it?”

Daryl has to admit that it does, indeed, feel good. He’s tired, and he’s surrounded by Rick’s lovely scent, and he’s not even very hungry today. More than that, he feels _ owned, _even though Rick hasn’t had the opportunity to bite him just yet. So he lets the matter go for the time being. Rick’s probably right to be anxious about Daryl’s enthusiasm, anyway. Daryl likes to feel confident about his learning ability, but the thing is, he might’ve been able to emulate what Rick did to him with his mouth - if not for those damn rows of teeth. He’s going to have to practice in a way that wouldn’t risk bringing harm to his mate. He needs someone to explain the whole process to him, too, someone willing to mentor him through everything so he can perfect the technique so he can impress Rick with his prowess the next time they become intimate.

And Daryl thinks he knows exactly who can help him with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to write the next chapter for so long you guys wouldn't believe. It's one of my favorites! Stay tuned, it's coming sometime this week :D


	22. Chapter 22

Paul Rovia, whose friends know him as Jesus, looks very much like he’s questioning all of his life choices that led up to where he is right now. 

“Let me get this straight,” he says, pauses, blinks, then amends: “or gay. Actually, let me get this very gay.”

He takes a deep breath in, breathes out of his nose, licks his lips, brushes a hand through his long hair and strokes his beard. Then, he licks his lips again and says, “What the actual fuck, Daryl?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. Had he known asking Jesus for help in this matter would make the guy turn into what Merle would’ve called a _ drama queen, _he would’ve gone to Aaron instead. His first choice, to be honest, would’ve been Eric, but Daryl already decided before that he wouldn’t bother Eric with his shit anymore. The man’s been patient enough as it is. 

Daryl chose Jesus precisely because Jesus already expressed his interest in teaching Daryl about sex-related things. He’s beginning to regret it now, since it turns out Jesus might not have been serious about his offer after all - or maybe he changed his mind. Apparently, his attraction to Daryl was a passing one, and it seems to have been inexplicably connected to his willingness to talk to Daryl about various sexual activities between two males.

Damn humans and their completely misplaced prudeness.

“It’s not fuckin’ complicated,” Daryl says. “I just need to learn to - ya know, do that, without my teeth gettin’ in the way. Can ya help me or should I go bother someone else?”

Jesus makes a frustrated sort of noise. His face is an alarming shade of red, and he’s flailing. At least Daryl thinks he is. He’s not sure what flailing looks like on people, it’s just an expression he read in Rick’s second book, but if he had to guess, he’d assume what Jesus is doing is flailing. He’s certainly flinging his arms about, and it’s difficult to tell if he looks more helpless, embarrassed or angry. 

“How the _ fuck _do you expect me to teach you how to give a blowjob?” He asks eventually, his voice more high-pitched than usual. There’s a hysterical edge to it. 

If Daryl wasn’t a bit desperate here himself, he almost could pity him.

As it is, he simply says: “Dunno what the hell a blowjob is, but if ‘s useful, then ya gotta teach me quick,” and he shrugs carelessly. 

He’s meeting Rick for dinner tonight, and he’s not missing it for shit. He’s not even going to be late a minute. It was hard enough leaving his mate alone after what they did together last night. There’s no possible way Daryl’s postponing seeing him - and he’ll be damned if he goes back to Rick without knowing exactly how to make him feel good with his mouth, teeth or no _ fucking _teeth.

“Thought ya were supposed to be my friend, man,” he says, giving Jesus a look full of disdain. He’s playing up the hurt, obviously, in hopes of making the man feel guilty. Carol claims his _ puppy-eyed look _could melt the toughest of hearts, so that’s what he schools his face into. He’s not manipulative by nature, but some situations in life require drastic measures.

Jesus lets out a long-suffering sigh. “A friend would watch porn with you, not teach you how to suck another dude’s dick,” he grumbles unhappily. But his resolve seems to be crumbling. 

“Could watch porn too since ‘s so important to ya,” Daryl offers, smiling and patting him on the back in reassurance. 

“That’s so not the point,” Jesus protests. He shakes his head. “Okay. Okay, you win. Damn you and your stupid sexy everything.”

Daryl tries very hard not to let his satisfaction show too much because that would be rubbing salt in the wounds or something. But he’s very proud of himself. It was worth it, ambushing Jesus in the office he shares with a few other undergrads and scaring everyone else away with a very pointed glare. He normally doesn’t like coming in here. The mixture of strong smells is too much. He finds it strange since he doesn’t seem to have this problem in other shared spaces, just this office. Maybe undergrads have an aversion to hygiene that normal people grow out of? 

If so, fortunately Jesus seems to be exempt from this kind of behavior. He always smells rather plain, non-threatening and vaguely pleasant. Well, almost always. Daryl isn’t overly fond of the scent of Jesus’ arousal, but then, it’s nobody’s fault that he only likes to smell desire on Rick. 

Mmmmm. Rick probably tastes as delicious as he smells. Daryl’s definitely going to find out tonight. 

“So first of all, we’re going to have to get some supplies,” Jesus says in a very resigned tone. Daryl doesn’t know the exact word for the opposite of _ enthusiasm, _but he’s pretty sure that’s the word to describe the younger man’s attitude right now. Whatever; Daryl’s got enough enthusiasm for both of them. 

Even if he’s incredibly ignorant about everything involved. “Supplies?” He asks. He doesn’t remember Rick using anything to pleasure him but his mouth. Daryl’s mouth is very much still attached, so he’s not sure what Jesus might mean.

“Yeah. You didn’t think I was going to let you use my dick to practice,” Jesus replies, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes like he thinks Daryl’s dumber than expected. 

Maybe he really is dumb, because he actually didn’t even consider that he’d need an object to use his mouth on. Obviously, now that Jesus’ mentioned it, Daryl immediately realizes he’s got no intention to have the younger man’s dangly bits anywhere near his mouth. It’s nothing personal, he’s just still not interested in the genitals of anyone who’s not Rick. But that leaves him at a sort of an impasse. 

He’s damn lucky Jesus is more creative than him - although, when they end up in a grocery market instead of something more sexually-oriented, Daryl begins to have doubts. Are there any sexually-oriented shops, anyway? Humans care about sex a whole damn lot, so it stands to reason they would have stores dedicated to their favorite pastime. But then, wouldn’t Jesus take him to a place like that instead of a damn fresh produce aisle in the local mini-Walmart?

“These will do,” Jesus announces, pointing to one of the crates with vegetables. It holds several oblong-shaped, green items. There’s a label, _ Burpless cucumber, _and they apparently cost ninety-nine cents a piece. They’re each wrapped in thin plastic, which makes Daryl scowl in distaste. The things already have skins, what do they need an additional layer of plastic for? 

“Stop frowning and pick some,” Jesus prompts him.

“Why can’t ya pick?” Daryl asks.

Jesus looks at him with a deadpan expression. “Well I haven’t seen your boyfriend’s dick, so I can’t very well make a comparison and choose a best match, can I?”

If his goal was to make Daryl blush a very dark shade of red, he succeeded. 

Embarrassed, Daryl looks down at his feet and mumbles, “Ain’t seen it neither.”

“What? Why?” Jesus asks, blinking in surprise. “I mean, he obviously saw yours up close and personal. You didn’t even give him a handjob in thanks? Man, that’s inconsiderate.”

“I wanted to touch him,” Daryl protests. Too loud; some older lady huffs and crosses over to the other side of the aisle in order to avoid _ perverts among normal people. _She grumbles the latter under her breath, the words obviously not meant for Daryl and Jesus to hear. Too bad she didn’t count on Daryl’s heightened hearing. The downright hostile look Daryl sends her way gives her motivation to hurry along.

“I wanted to touch him,” Daryl repeats in a lowered voice, glaring at the old woman’s back until she disappears out of his line of sight. “He ain’t let me. Said he came in his pants. ‘s that how ya say it? ‘bout havin’ an orgasm?”

“Yeah,” Jesus says and exhales loudly. “When we’re back, remind me to update you on the terminology, will you? It’ll be easier for both of us if you actually understand whatever the hell I’m saying. Should help you communicate with your pretty boyfriend, too.”

Daryl feels a spike of pride at Jesus referring to Rick as pretty. Of course, he thinks Rick is pretty, too, but it’s nice to hear someone else confirm his own opinion. He briefly wonders if he should be jealous; after all, Jesus has a bad track record of getting with other people’s boyfriends. He discards the thought as soon as it arises. Rick wouldn’t cheat, even if Jesus decided to direct his charms at him. And it’s dubious Jesus would. He’s a friend. A friend who made a mistake and would eventually have to face the consequences for sure, but still a friend.

“Okay then,” Jesus mutters. He looks at the cucumbers in the crate. “Guess we’ll just have to use whatever. Huh. These would be average… but maybe we should go with bigger than average, just in case?” He eyes the vegetables critically, picks a few with especially rounded tips on both ends, and puts them inside the shopping basket he got them at the entrance. He looks at Daryl, then grabs a few more cucumbers. “Just to be safe,” he says under his breath. 

There ends up being over a dozen thick cucumbers in the basket, each one approximately twelve inches in length. The cashier gives them a suspicious look which both Daryl and Jesus ignore. 

They pack the cucumbers into a paper bag and head back to the Institute. They bump into Professor King in the hall, who just reminds Jesus about an assignment he’s to complete before the end of the week. Nobody else bothers them as they walk to Daryl’s apartment. Jesus grabs his laptop on the way, but other than that, they don’t have any more detours. As soon as they’re inside Daryl’s small bedroom, Jesus takes a seat on the only available chair and opens the computer. 

“I don’t care it’s morning, I should’ve drunk something before we came here,” he mutters under his breath. “I don’t know if I can be sober for this.”

Daryl frowns and opens the closet. There’s a bottle of whiskey at the bottom which he picks up and hands to Jesus. “Got it from Ezekiel like two years ago. I don’t drink so ‘s ain’t been opened. Wanna?”

Jesus grabs the bottle and uncorks it like a pro. He takes a long swig straight from the bottle, then slams it down on the table, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales.

“Okay. Okay, I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

He takes one of the cucumbers, peels it from its plastic wrapper and washes it in the sink. “I guess you didn’t get to see much of what your Rick did down there, right?”

Daryl nods. He licks his lips and asks: “Should I been lookin’?” 

Jesus shakes his head. “Nah, doesn’t matter. I mean, you wouldn’t have seen much anyway,” he replies. “So, the basic idea is, I’m going to play you a video, and I’ll demonstrate exactly what’s being done. And then you’re going to practice.”

It sounds reasonable, so Daryl drops his shoes and sits down cross-legged on his bed. He pats the empty space next to him so Jesus knows he’s welcome to get comfy too. The younger man looks at him all weird, though.

“I’m not sitting next to you while you look at porn,” he protests.

“Alright, alright, sorry,” Daryl apologizes. He resists the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s nonsense. “Jus’ offered, man. Don’t need to get all huffy.”

“It’s just awkward, okay?” Jesus explains. “You’re all chill about this, but I’m just a normal guy. I get turned on by this stuff, and it’s going to be really weird if I get a boner sitting next to you. Because I’m still not completely over you. So it’s even weirder.”

“‘s only weird ‘cause ya insist on makin’ it so,” Daryl notes, but he shrugs. “I don’t care either way. Whichever’s more convenient to ya.”

Jesus sighs, reaches for the bottle again, knock it back and drinks until it’s half empty. He coughs violently as the alcohol burns his throat. He sets the bottle on the table, grabs the laptop and almost throws himself onto the empty spot on the bed. He places the cucumber on the sheets between them.

“‘s gonna be your fault ‘f I embarrass m’self,” he grumbles, words slurring together. He’s already drunk, which isn’t surprising with the amount he consumed in such a short time. He presses _ play _on the movie player he’s got running, and pushes the computer into Daryl’s lap.

The video starts out innocent enough: there are two guys on a sofa, talking about some shit. Then it suddenly goes from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, with one of the guys completely naked and the other between his legs in a position eerily similar to what Daryl remembers from Rick and his thryst last night. There’s a penis and a mouth, a lot of licking, spit everywhere, and noises which sound pained more than pleased. Daryl watches with a kind of morbid curiosity; he’s glad he didn’t decide to watch any porn before doing things with Rick after all. It wouldn’t have made him any wiser, but it might’ve convinced him not to try any sexual activities.

“This arouses ya?” He asks Jesus.

The younger man shrugs and replies: “Not all’a us got pretty boyfriends an’ high shtandards. Is a choice b’tween this an’ watchin’ you get undressed all the time. You sure get naked lots, y’know? Makin’ it real hard not to… y’know… get hard,” he finishes with an inelegant snort, obviously proud of what is probably a joke. It’s difficult to tell. He’s not especially coherent right now. 

He doesn’t smell much like arousal though, just like the whiskey he drank. Daryl wonders if giving him alcohol was such a good idea. Nothing he can do about it now; he directs his attention back to the screen where the first guy is currently lapping at the tip of the second guy’s penis like it’s a particularly tasty lollipop. He’s also fondling the man’s testicles, which is apparently very nice because the second man finally sounds like he’s enjoying himself. Seems like a good hint, something Daryl will have to try. 

“Watch now, this gonna be useful,” Jesus says, tugging on Daryl’s arm and pointing to the screen. “See how he tucks his lips over his teeth? He’s got normal teeth, but it’s necesse… nece… necessesse… uh, he has to do this ‘cause even normal teeth can be painful. You know?”

“I get it,” Daryl says, and he tries to imitate the man in the video. It feels a bit stupid, but Jesus gives him a thumbs-up, so he must be doing it right.

“Good, you’re a natural,” the younger man praises with a grin. “So first you hafta lick and touch and you know, nice things. Then you cover teeth and go for it. Wanna try?” He pats the sheets and finds the cucumber which he then offers to Daryl.

Daryl takes the vegetable and squints at it suspiciously. It’s not especially appetizing, to be honest: he’s not a fan of vegetables in the first place, and this one just looks weird. But he’s not doing this for the cucumber, he’s doing this for Rick. He sighs softly, then sticks out just the tip of his tongue and touches it to the more rounded end. It doesn’t taste like anything in particular, so that’s good. Daryl opens his mouth wide and slides the vegetable inside carefully-

And immediately tastes its watery flavor as his teeth literally shred the skin.

“Yeah, so that’s a fail,” Jesus comments needlessly. He gets off the bed, takes a few shaky steps towards where he left their paper bag, and retrieves two more cucumbers. He removes the plastic and washes the vegetables, then returns to his spot by Daryl’s side.

“You forgot the essentials,” he explains and then demonstrates how to properly cover teeth with lips. “Ahh hhish,” he says, which Daryl somehow understands to mean _ like this. _

He watches as Jesus expertly shoves the cucumber into his mouth. It slides inside easily, and Jesus takes it to the middle of its length before he pulls it back out and shows the spit-slick vegetable to Daryl. The skin looks flawless, there’s not a single scratch on the shiny surface. 

“This is how it’s done,” the younger man announces, grinning, visibly proud of himself.

Daryl huffs. “You’ve only got yer one row of puny teeth,” he mutters. “Me? I ain’t got enough lip to cover all a’them.”

“Excuses,” Jesus says in clear dismissal. “I know the second one’s retrata.. re… I know ya can keep it down.”

“But that’s the thing,” Daryl complains. “They pop out on ‘em own when I’s smellin’ somethin’ delicious. And uh. My brain’s been considerin’ Rick extra-delicious.”

Jesus stares at him. “So… They can just come up when you’re going down on the poor bastard? That’s, uh, too bad.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I kinda dodged a bullet here...”

Daryl glares at his sad, mangled cucumber. Only one row of teeth did all this damage. He knows there’s gonna be two rows to deal with when he’s with Rick tonight. How is he supposed to go about this?

But he tries, and again, and once more. Six more cucumbers suffer the same fate of the first one, and Daryl’s about done with this crap. He’s never been particularly fond of vegetables of any sort, but right now, he feels like if he has to eat any more cucumbers, he’s going to puke. At least Carol would be proud: she’s always trying to make him eat veggies so he has enough vitamins. She doesn’t seem to accept that he’s got no need for those.

“You know, you don’t exactly have to like. Swallow him down or anything,” Jesus supplies. “You could just use a lot of tongue, without ever actually getting your whole mouth around his dick. Heh. Rick’s dick,” he giggles. He’s easily amused after a few sips of whiskey.

Daryl growls, utterly unappreciative of the joke, and looks back at his ruined cucumber number seven. Jesus hands him a new one and offers an encouraging smile. He looks at Daryl, eyes wide and dark, and lovingly presses his lips to the tip of his own vegetable. 

“Come on,” he insists. “Copy what I’m doing.”

It works out somewhat better than the whole _ shoving the cucumber down his throat _ business. Daryl imitates the way Jesus flicks his tongue and laps around the tip of the cucumber, the way he licks all over, and presses little wet kisses alongside the length. Unfortunately, the whole endeavour feels incredibly stupid. The cucumber doesn’t have the same warmth and texture as that particular part of human anatomy it’s supposed to stand for, and Daryl can’t help but wonder how dumb he must look, licking a vegetable. Meanwhile, next to him, Jesus must be _ really drunk _because he seems to be getting very into it, if the soft noises he’s making and the definite scent of his arousal are anything to go by. There’s entirely too much spit for it to still be a simple demonstration. In fact, Daryl’s starting to wonder if he should leave the room to give Jesus and his cucumber some time alone.

“Y’know it ain’t Aaron’s cock or nothin’,” he says, giving Jesus a short but exasperated look. 

The younger man frowns and pauses at his _ demonstration. _He spits out the cucumber and throws it to the side, then offers Daryl a truly withering glare. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “You don’t get to keep judging me, man. It’s none of your business.”

“Eric’s my friend,” Daryl protests, “maybe my best friend ‘sides Carol. I ain’t judgin’, but-”

“No, you’re judging alright,” Jesus claims. He pokes Daryl in the chest with an accusing finger. “You think you’re so good, don’t you? So above humans and our petty problems. You think you can judge us for our shit ‘cause you’re better. Well, you’re not. You just don’t get shit. You’re actually quite dumb, aren’t you? Like a damn fish.”

Daryl has a vague feeling he should be insulted, but he supposes he might’ve deserved the harsh words. What’s between Jesus, Aaron and Eric is just that: between them, and he shouldn’t have said anything about it. Here Jesus is, trying to help him with something he really didn’t want to be helping with in the first place - and there Daryl goes, acting like he’s got any right to, well, judge him. He realizes with a start, he’s become incredibly selfish since meeting Rick. Everything seems to revolve around him, what _ he _ wants, what _ he _ needs to learn, what Rick can give _ him. _

It might be due to the hormones, he’s not sure. What he’s sure of is, it’s not the kind of person he wants to be.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. Genuinely. 

“Yeah, me too,” Jesus replies, shaking his head. Without hesitation, he pats Daryl’s shoulder in a friendly manner. “I’m drunk, don’t mind me. This just isn’t my day.”

“No, but yer right,” Daryl says. He puts the laptop away and closes it, and sprawls back on the bed with a groan. 

After a minute, Jesus joins him with a deep sigh, and Daryl moves his arm so it can serve as the younger man’s pillow. There’s a lingering scent of Jesus’ arousal in the air when they’re this close, but no more than that. From what Daryl can tell, Jesus smells mostly sad, like he’s about to cry. 

Alcohol sure drives people through the mood wheel quickly.

“I ain’t great at talkin’, but ya can talk at me. I’ll listen,” Daryl offers. His voice is softer than he thought it’d be, but it suits the mood so he doesn’t care. He’d like to convey he’s here for his friend if need be. Because damn it, Jesus has been there for him all along.

“Thanks, but there’s nothing to talk about. That thing with Aaron is over, it wasn’t ever really a thing, and I don’t wanna think about it anymore,” Jesus murmurs and shifts to plaster himself to Daryl’s side. He buries his nose in Daryl’s chest and sighs. “I’ll just sleep on you for a while, sober up and then never mention this shit again. Okay?”

“Sure,” Daryl agrees.

He thinks about how he won’t be able to pleasure Rick with his mouth tonight, or any time in the near future. Stupid cucumbers. Stupid teeth, too. Maybe he’s giving up too soon, but he supposes he’s got other priorities right now. Jesus is already asleep, the little shit, snoring lightly against Daryl’s clothes. Good for him.

“... I hope yer gonna at least recommend some porn later,” Daryl says to the sleeping man. He’s pretty sure there’s more to that whole _ sex _thing between two guys, there are more ways in which he can make his mate happy and he needs to know about all of them. He’s just going to have to do his research the hard way. No more involving people who don’t want to be involved.

Oh, and also: he hates cucumbers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS is the height of my sense of humor. The chapter I wanted to write so much. Because cucumbers.  
Did you know there are over 70 types of cucumbers? I didn't. I also didn't know it would ever be something I'd need to research :D  
Coming up next: Rick and Daryl learn new stuff. And things. So many things.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I was busy first and then got sick... still am sick, but I wanted to make everyone happy for Valentine's Day! So, please enjoy the lovey-dovey sharks... uh, one shark, and one Rick, at least.

Rick opens the door shirtless and all of Daryl’s carefully thought-out explanations about how he’s so sorry but he won’t be able to return the favor from the night before, go out of the window. The man is only dressed in a pair of loose sweats which hang dangerously low on his hips, and Daryl feels his own body eagerly respond to his mate’s level of nudity. The only word that leaves his mouth is a very heartfelt _ fuck, _ and anything Rick might’ve wanted to say in reply is forgotten as Daryl kisses him: slow, careful, but deep and demanding. Thankfully, they both seem to be on the same page about how they want to proceed, at least for the time being; Rick easily falls into Daryl’s embrace and kisses back, sliding his tongue against Daryl’s in an intimate greeting. Their entire bodies press close together, and Daryl feels the heat radiating off of Rick’s skin. The urge to bite is almost overwhelming, and he has to pull away to sink his teeth into his own forearm to stop himself from hurting Rick. 

He’d never hurt Rick. He’d rather die.

“Damn, Daryl,” Rick says breathlessly. He’s staring with wide eyes at where Daryl bit himself; the wound does look quite bad, the flesh is mangled where two rows of teeth sunk into it, and there’s a lot of blood. It’s fine, though, doesn’t even hurt much, so Daryl just shrugs. 

“Just gotta put it in saltwater a minute,” he says. “Ain’t a big deal. Had worse.”

“Not self-inflicted, though,” Rick protests. “You can’t just… hurt yourself like this. Definitely not because of me.”

Daryl sighs. He doesn’t like Rick getting worked up over something so trivial. Especially when it seems to completely change the mood from _ let’s be sexual together right this moment _ to _ oh no you’re hurt this is not good. _

“Better this than bitin’ ya, innit?” He huffs, and regretfully unplasters himself from where he’s been pressed up against Rick’s sweaty front. He supposes he should take care of the bleeding if he wants Rick to be agreeable to any sort of intimacy at all. 

And he wants Rick to be agreeable. Because he’s got Ideas. He watched a lot of porn over the time Jesus napped on him. As it turned out, there are a lot of things he can actually do with Rick which will not be hindered by either party’s threatening state of dental chaos. He even went to the pharmacy on his way back and got some supplies, as per Eric’s very detailed instructions via text message.

“Gonna clean this up,” he mutters, and heads towards the terrace which goes out directly into the house’s adjoining boat pier. He grabs a bucket on the way, and he reaches out from the pier to fill the bucket with water. He unceremoniously sticks his arm inside, and waits.

Rick follows, he notes, so maybe the night is still salvageable: there’s that look of wondrous amazement on the man’s face that Daryl is slowly becoming familiar with. He thinks it’s associated with every time he’s shown off his abilities in front of his mate. It always makes him feel good about himself that Rick finds him impressive.

“I keep looking at you and wondering if I’m dreaming,” Rick says softly. “Everything about you is so impossible. I can’t believe you’re real… and mine.”

“Am, though. Both these things,” Daryl assures. He flexes the muscles in his arm to see if the injury becomes aggravated. It doesn’t. In fact, when he pours the bloody water from the bucket over the pier to the ocean and examines his skin, he finds it virtually unscathed. There’s not even a mark left, not that Daryl thought there would be. His teeth aren’t exactly very threatening, not to him, after all.

“Let me show you something,” Rick offers, and takes Daryl’s hand to pull him back inside the house. They pass the living room and walk past the bedroom door, to Daryl’s surprise; Rick leads him upstairs instead, to the book-littered studio where he’s apparently set up his working space for writing. There’s a computer set on top of the large desk, and there are literally dozens upon dozens of thick books scattered around on most available surfaces. The titles range from things that sound somewhat silly, like _ The White Shark and Other Monsters of the Deep, _ through some encyclopedias and hardback releases of scientific research, to completely bizarre, out-of-place stuff like _ Hawaiian Folk Tales _ or _ Beyond Homer: A journey through the more obscure side of Ancient Greek mythology. _

“Ya openin’ up yer own library?” Daryl asks, picking up what seems to be an anthology of folk tales and legends from Fiji.

“Just trying to find you in literature,” Rick replies, grinning. He takes the book from Daryl’s hands and opens it on a bookmarked page. “This one is about a god, Dakuwanga, also called Takuaka. He was depicted as a muscular man with a shark’s upper torso, but he was able to shapeshift into anything. He was a protector god.”

“Well I ain’t a shapeshifter,” Daryl notes. But he’s intrigued; he never found the time or the will of power to actually do any research about sharks and shark-like humanoid creatures. There’s never been a need, honestly, and anyway, he’s of the mindset that reading about this stuff is pointless because a book isn’t going to look back at him and say, _ yes Daryl, this thing you’ve just read about is you, good job, now you know you’re an ancient redneck shark god of the Georgia wilds. _Or something.

But Rick seems so enthusiastic about it, and that’s enough to convince Daryl the whole ordeal is worth the effort. Shaking his head with a smile, Daryl reaches into one of the pockets in his cargo pants and retrieves the case containing his glasses. He puts them on and grins up at Rick.

“Alright then,” he says, “let’s be nerdy together ‘bout this.”

He spies a comfy-looking bean sofa in the corner and he heads there, gathering some books on the way. He plops down, enjoying the feeling of the sofa adjusting to his body shape as he sinks in it; he puts the books on the floor at his feet and pats the empty space at his side, urging Rick to join him. 

Rick is staring, though, seemingly rooted in place. “You’re… wearing glasses,” he says weakly.

Daryl blinks. “Uh, yeah,” he replies slowly. The way his mate is reacting makes him feel unexpectedly self-conscious. “Am far-sighted. Can see great at fifty feet, but small distances give me trouble,” he explains quickly.

Rick nods and licks his lips. “You look hot in glasses,” he informs somewhat breathlessly.

And okay, this is unexpected. Daryl knows Rick finds him attractive of course, it would be impossible not to know with the scent of arousal Rick emits whenever he catches a glimpse of bare skin or finds something about Daryl fascinating. But it’s the first time someone other than Carol saw him wearing glasses, and Daryl didn’t expect the sign of weakness could actually make him more desirable to his mate rather than less. Sure, Carol chose this particular model of glasses because she thought they accentuated Daryl’s bone structure nicely, but still. It’s surprising that Rick likes it. 

Though admittedly, Daryl thinks Rick liking him at all is already surprising enough.

He smiles. “C’mon. Ya wanted to show me yer books,” he says and scoots over a little. When Rick finally sinks into the seat next to him, Daryl puts an arm around his waist to hold him, just because the smell of Rick’s sweat-slick skin up close makes him content.

“Tell me ‘bout them shark gods,” he murmurs before breathing Rick in, burying his nose in his mate’s hair.

“Oh… okay,” Rick agrees, and sighs before he closes his eyes and relaxes into Daryl’s embrace. Then, he begins:

“So, a lot of insular cultures have their own myths and legends about sharks, but particularly the various Polynesian cultures refer to them as gods, guardians and ancestral spirits. I found lots of stories where sharks protect entire islands or specific people. In Hawaii, many families have these, sort of like, guardian angel-type sharks, you know? And it’s popular to tattoo shark teeth marks on the ankle as a kind of safety talisman.”

“Huh,” Daryl hums thoughtfully. “Don’t think that would work.”

“Shush, you. It’s about faith, not facts,” Rick says, swatting him playfully on the knee. 

“Now, I was reading this because there’s a story there about a shark-man, who was the son of the king of sharks and a human woman.”

“Uh, okay, I guess humans would be the only animal to go _ awwww yisss, imma fuck a shark _,” Daryl admits, barely containing the laughter bubbling in his chest.

Rick rolls his eyes. “Don’t judge,” he says. “What do you know, maybe the shark king had great personality.”

“‘s a shark,” Daryl replies, shaking his head in amusement. “Most a’ them got the personality of a vacuum cleaner, but with attitude. Y’all can pack bond with anythin’, can’cha?”

“Wait, okay, fucking a shark is a bit extreme. But in this story, the shark king was a shapeshifter too,” Rick adds. His hand stays on Daryl’s knee and squeezes gently. “So the woman didn’t fuck a shark, not exactly, she didn’t know he was a shark until her kid started shifting into a shark and eating people.”

“Ain’t like me at all,” Daryl concludes.

Rick nods. “True, but then, legends may have some truth to them, too, right? Say, long ago, some human actually… well, fucked a shark. Not a real shark, rather some mythical, shape-shifting shark, and they had children. Down a few generations, the shapeshifting ability might’ve declined, but some shark-like features remained. Makes sense, huh?”

“Maybe,” Daryl admits, “but my mama ain’t been Hawaiian. At least, she ain’t never said so.”

“Didn’t have to be,” Rick says. “There are other myths, too. For example, in Ancient Greece, there was this story about Lamia, who was a Libyan queen I think? She had an affair with Zeus and in short, it led to her becoming a monster and eating children. In some versions, she was serpentine, but in others, she turned into a shark.”

“Great, ‘cause sharks totally needed the bad press,” Daryl grumbles. He decides to remedy the blow by sucking a little love-mark into the skin above Rick’s collarbone. 

“Stop distracting me,” Rick protests weakly, but he doesn’t even try to push Daryl away. He makes a soft sound of pleasure, actually, and then tries to continue his lecture.

“What’s interesting about Lamia’s story is that she supposedly had a son with Zeus, who was a real beautiful man,” he says.

“Mmm, don’t seem very fittin’,” Daryl notes, placing small suckling kisses along the length of Rick’s throat.

The man groans. “Please,” he mutters. “If you were any prettier, I’d have to wave a stick around to keep your admirers away.”

“Shut up,” Daryl scoffs. He’s not that pretty. He’s just fit. It’s not his fault if Rick needs to get his eyes checked.

“Anyway, the son. His name was Acheilus, and he claimed he was more beautiful than Aphrodite herself,” Rick says. 

“Whoever Afro-dyke was,” Daryl mutters.

Rick chuckles. “_ Aphrodite, _” he corrects pointedly. “Venus? The Greek goddess of love? Didn’t they teach you nothing at school?”

“Ain’t went to school,” Daryl reminds him with a shrug. “I know where Greece is, though? That help?”

“I guess,” Rick says, blinking. He licks his lips, then smiles. “Okay, so Greece had all these gods, and Aphrodite was the most beautiful of them, and she was the goddess of love. Her problem was she was also very jealous of her beauty, which wasn’t very good for that Acheilus dude. Especially after he started going around, telling people he was prettier than Aphrodite. As you can imagine, she didn’t take too well to that.”

“What’s that gotta do with sharks?” Daryl asks. He starts to rub his fingers along Rick’s sides, gently tickling him, enough to make him squirm, but not enough to drive him away.

“I was getting to that,” Rick huffs, swatting his hand away. “Because Aphrodite was sort of a bitch, she decided to curse Acheilus, and turned him into something she thought was really ugly.”

“A shark,” Daryl guesses, and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, don’t suppose I missed much not goin’ to school, if that shit’s what they taught y’all. Lemme guess… dude started eatin’ people?”

“I don’t know really, never finished the myth,” Rick replies. “I think I like the Hawaiian stories more. They seem much more respectful. Sharks in them aren’t vicious monsters… Well most of them aren’t.”

“And pretty women fuck them,” Daryl supplies helpfully.

He grins when Rick snickers in amusement. The scent of Rick’s joy is addictive, a bit similar in nature to the smell of the world after rainfall, interspersed with the tint of electricity in the air that always signifies a storm. Daryl wants to be the cause for Rick feeling like this. He wants to smell summer rain on his mate and see the corners of his lips lifted in a genuine smile which brightens his incredibly blue eyes. For some reason, Rick finds him beautiful, but looking at his laughter, Daryl can’t help but think there’s only one beautiful man in the world, and no damn Greek goddess could ever compare to the radiance of a happy Rick Grimes.

Which is a sappy thought, but what can Daryl do. He’s very in love.

“‘m gonna tell ya a story now,” Daryl offers, pulling Rick closer so that the man is almost sprawled on top of him. 

“Will you now? You any good at telling stories?” Rick asks with a teasing lilt to his voice, but he settles easily into the new position and sighs contentedly.

Daryl nods. “Sure I am.”

He kisses the top of Rick’s head. “There was once a random dude who was also a shark, kinda. He has them teeth to prove it, an’ he’s all good at swimmin’, like. And that dude was just livin’ his life, mindin’ his own business, when all offa sudden, there comes strollin’ this other guy. An’ ya gotta know, this guy, he’s somethin’ else.”

He smiles to himself. “Got them prettiest eyes in the world. Like, dead serious here, nobody should be allowed to have eyes that pretty. Ya seen Titanic? The movie where they hit that iceberg an’ all?”

“Yeah,” Rick supplies in a low hum. 

“They’s got that big jewel there, remember? Call it _ Heart of the Ocean _‘r somethin’. ‘s blue an’ all, lustrous like. Catches light all nice. ‘s very precious, very blue, an’ real damn pretty. This guy’s eyes?” He pauses and grins to himself. “Even prettier,” he decides easily. No competition, really. 

“So this guy, he goes up to our shark dude an’s all, _ wanna date, _an’ the thing is, the shark dude’s never met anyone he wanted to date before, okay? But pretty eyes here is on to somethin’, so shark dude says fine, an’ suddenly they start datin’. Shark dude’s kinda in over his head, don’t know how to do shit. Gots ‘em teeth, too, and soon enough it becomes a problem. Can’t do all the stuff couples do with these teeth, right?”

“Daryl,” Rick interrupts softly. “I don’t mind that you can’t- I mean…”

“Shush, I’m tellin’ the story,” Daryl chastises him. 

Rick frowns, but stops talking, so Daryl continues:

“All’a this makes shark dude thinkin’, what _ else _can he do for blue eyes. ‘cause there definitely hafta be things the teeth ain’t gonna bother, yeah? So he does research, an’ he learns there’s lotsa stuff he wanna do with blue eyes.”

He licks his lips. “What I’m sayin’ is, I wanna. Y’know. Wanna have sex with ya. Any way that works. ‘cause I just wanna be close to ya, an’ make y’all feel good. So. That’s the story. The end.”

“That’s a terrible story,” Rick mutters, but he sounds a little out of breath. And his scent has become spiked with arousal, which Daryl obviously smells immediately. Rick must be aware of that, because his face reddens just slightly and he looks away, but his nostrils flare and Daryl can hear the way his heartbeat quickens. 

“So maybe I’m bad at tellin’ stories,” he murmurs, leaning in to plant a wet little kiss to the damp skin on Rick’s neck. “Still… maybe we can make this one better.”

“When’d you get so smooth, huh?” Rick asks.

Daryl doesn’t reply. Instead, he sucks gently on the spot of skin he just kissed, and he groans when he sees a small bruise forming there. It’s light and won’t be there for long, but still, it being there at all satisfies something territorial inside of Daryl’s brain. He’s possessive over Rick, just like Rick is possessive over him, and this tiny, temporary mark is feeding right into the instinct. It’s proof that right here, right now, Rick is his, and doesn’t contest this sort of ownership.

Daryl also knows he wants to be Rick’s in exactly the same way. Marked. Even though he didn’t think that was what the biting was about, he realizes, he wants everyone to know at first sight that he is somebody’s. Rick’s. It’s not connected with the urge to bite, not exactly. It comes from somewhere else. Biting is a compulsion, something completely animalistic, something leftover from whatever shark-related origins Daryl inherited from his mama. This is different. It’s the same thing that drives humans to get their loved ones’ names tattooed on their skin, to wear matching rings and other pieces of jewelry that mark their devotion to each other.

“Wait,” Rick mutters. He pushes Daryl away, though the gesture lacks any real conviction. 

“Wait, Daryl, wait. I’m all gross,” he explains. “Gotta shower first.”

“... I don’t mind though,” Daryl assures him

Rick rolls his eyes. “I bet you don’t,” he says. “I bet _ nothing _would gross you out…”

Daryl blinks, trying to understand Rick’s meaning. His mate seems to indicate that something about the possibility of them having sex right now might be disgusting, which… well, Daryl can’t imagine anything about Rick being disgusting at all. But then he remembers the porn material he watched, and realizes that humans have no control over their metabolism rate. Which means they might not be, well, all clean. In places. At times. 

He still doesn’t mind, but Rick obviously does, so Daryl decides not to argue the matter. 

“We should both clean up then,” he suggests. He’s not sure yet how their sexual encounter will go, who will be doing what, even though he has some very vivid ideas about the things he wants to try on Rick. He doesn’t suppose he’s in any need to clean himself up anywhere special, not with how his excretory system is actually very capable of removing any remnants of waste without risk of anything remaining, but. If Rick needs the reassurance that they’re both clean, then Daryl supposes he doesn’t even mind.

“There are two bathrooms here,” Rick informs him. “It’s best we take separate showers, yes? And we can take it to the bedroom then.”

Daryl agrees and kisses Rick deeply, enjoying the distant aftertaste of chocolate on his tongue, before both of them get up to head to the bathrooms. It’s a pity they have to part ways for the moment, but Daryl assumes that Rick may be embarrassed about the whole _ getting clean _process. Jesus certainly didn’t want to talk about it, even though he was still a bit drunk once he woke up from his nap. Humans and their aversions to the natural goings on of their bodies will never fail to amaze him. 

Yeah, so maybe sharks go too far with their acceptance of poo in their lives to the point of _ eating it, _but, well, at least they don’t pretend it doesn’t exist.

_ The fuck am I thinkin’ ‘bout that for? _Daryl asks himself, frowning as he gets into the shower. He didn’t bring a change of clothes along, but that’s fine, those he came in are still clean. And he won’t be needing them anyway. His mind is immediately drawn to the realization that he’s going to finally see Rick completely naked soon, and all stupid thoughts of waste go out of the window at that just as all blood in his body rushes down to fill and erect Daryl’s penis. He makes a quick job out of thoroughly scrubbing himself, head spinning, heart thrumming in anticipation. He exits the shower smelling like lavender, which might not be his favorite scent but it’s not so bad - he smelled it on Rick once or twice, so it’s sort of enhanced by the pleasant memory. 

He doesn’t really know where the bedroom is, so he decides to explore the house, following his nose to where he can smell Rick’s scent the strongest. It works well enough: he finds the room on second attempt, because the first just leads him to the door of what must be the other bathroom. Once he’s in the bedroom, he looks at the bed - much, much bigger than his own - and wonders what a single person needs such a big bed for. Doesn’t it feel lonely sleeping all alone in all that space? 

Well… Rick won’t be feeling lonely any time soon, Daryl decides, and he climbs on top of the bed covers. He tries to arrange himself on the bed in an enticing way, copying some of the poses of the men he saw in his porn research earlier, but he only ends up feeling stupid. He sits up, cross-legged, and examines the interior design of the bedroom. It’s plain, though, nothing interesting catches his eye. To battle boredom, Daryl picks up one of the pillows and hugs it, breathes in the scent of his mate. 

There’s a gun under where the pillow was. Daryl almost doesn’t notice it at first, too busy contemplating how Rick apparently uses a vanilla-scented shampoo, but even so, he soon becomes aware of the dark shape in the corner of his vision. It’s a revolver type handgun, nicely made. Must’ve been oiled recently because Daryl can smell it. Not used, though: there’s no leftover smell of burnt gunpowder in the air nor in the pillow Daryl’s hugging. As far as he can guess, the gun’s never been shot.

Why would Rick have a gun? No, he thinks, that’s not the question to ask: everyone can have a gun, they’re legal, even Merle used to have a couple even though he definitely didn’t need them. _ Why would Rick have a gun under his pillow? Is he in danger? Is someone threatening him? _

The thought that his mate might not feel safe enough to sleep without a weapon riles him up in a completely different way than he intended to be riled up. All sorts of decency completely forgotten, Daryl gets up from the bed and heads to the bathroom to check on Rick. Not that Rick needs checking on, but Daryl isn’t at his most rational at the moment; he all but barges into the bathroom and walks into the shower stall, wrapping his arms around Rick’s naked body even before the man fully realizes he’s not alone anymore.

“Daryl! What the fuck,” Rick exclaims, looking back over his shoulder. He doesn’t sound angry, just very surprised. Well, okay, maybe also vaguely irritated. He turns off the water and purses his lips, awaiting an answer.

“‘m gonna keep ya safe,” Daryl promises him, pressed very closely against his back. “Nobody will ever hurt ya. Never.”

“Umm, that’s very nice of you,” Rick says, no doubt trying to sound reasonable through his confusion. “Whatever brought this on?”

“Found yer gun under the pillow,” Daryl mutters. His body is reacting to the proximity of his mate, but he doesn’t care. This right now is not sexual. This is about making sure Rick knows he’s not in any danger from anything in the whole damn world for as long as Daryl lives. Even if they’re both very naked, and Rick smells so nice. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Rick sighs, and chuckles. “It’s just an old habit from back when I was a cop,” he assures. “Nobody wants to hurt me or anything.”

“... okay,” Daryl murmurs into the nape of his neck which he might be nuzzling. It’s not his fault Rick is so very distracting. “Still gonna protect ya,” he adds, and places a soft little kiss at the juncture of Rick’s neck and shoulder, loving how the tiny droplets of water there retain the distinct taste of Rick’s skin. 

And then Rick turns in his arms and shakes his head, then looks at Daryl with his blue eyes darkened by desire. There’s just a second when neither of them does anything, and then Rick is kissing him, careful and slow, but deep and sensual nonetheless.

They don’t make it to the bed, but that’s okay: there are many things two lovers can do for each other in the shower, too, and Daryl’s teeth aren’t _ that _ much of an obstacle.


	24. Chapter 24

Daryl is woken up by the sound of a phone vibrating. It’s not in the same room as he is, and he’s so comfortable, wrapped up in the arms and scent of his mate, that he’s very disinclined to get up and go search for wherever he left his jeans and the cell phone in their pocket. 

He smiles lazily. Last night was… Daryl doesn’t have the words to describe it. They made it to bed eventually, but only after they were too tired to do much else but fall asleep together. Daryl got to taste Rick in his most intimate places, and he got to feel Rick from the inside out, and then Rick did some pretty much magical things to him, too. The sensation of being fully immersed in the body and mind of his mate will be forever etched in his memories, though Daryl seriously hopes he won’t have to rely on memory to relive everything that happened. In fact… he could totally go for a reprisal right now. 

He nuzzles the back of Rick’s neck with his nose, chuckling when Rick pushes back to bury himself even more in Daryl’s arms, humming softly. It’s adorable, and Daryl’s almost loathe to interrupt his mate’s contented slumber, but… Well. He feels a certain sort of urgency deep in his belly. An urgency that makes him rub his front against Rick’s backside. 

“Mmmm, you gotta be kiddin’ me…” Rick mumbles into the pillow, sleepily slurring the words together a bit. “Take that thing away from my ass, it’s not getting in me ever again,” he adds, casting a warning glance over his shoulder at Daryl. He seems to be amused, though, judging by the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Can put yers in me, then. Seemed to like it just fine last night,” Daryl suggests, pulling gently on Rick’s arm to coax him to roll over. The stubborn man only holds on tighter to the pillow, openly giggling now. 

“No, no, let me sleep,” he protests, snorting in inelegant laughter when Daryl tries to convince him to change his mind with tickles, running his fingers mercilessly over the warm naked skin within his reach.

“C’mon, yer not gonna sleep all day.” 

Rick looks at him, face all serious even though he’s all but shaking with laughter. “Try me,” he challenges with a crooked smile. 

“M’kay then,” Daryl relents. He rolls away from Rick to lie at the edge of the bed, already missing the comfort of his mate’s warm body - but he’s got a point to prove. 

As expected, Rick makes a very disgruntled sound and shifts to follow his source of warmth. Daryl grins, takes Rick by the arm and pulls him on top of himself, then wraps his legs immediately around Rick’s slim hips, holding onto him like a deranged octopus.

“Gotcha,” he says with satisfaction.

Rick groans and makes a feeble attempt to push against his chest, but Daryl doesn’t budge. Instead, he plants a wet kiss on Rick’s cheek. He laughs when his mate grimaces.

“How do you _ not have _morning breath?” Rick asks, clearly disgusted for some reason.

Daryl frowns. “What’s mornin’ breath?” 

Instead of replying, Rick just _ breathes _at him, and okay, yeah, that’s… not the most pleasant smell. It’s not so bad, overall, just not nice. Nothing to be mortified about, that’s for sure. 

“That’s why y’all so big on brushin’ yer teeth?” Daryl asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Rick blinks, confused. “How are you not bothered? Isn’t your nose super-sensitive or something?”

“Well, it is,” Daryl admits, “but my brain don’t process smells the same way yours does. Ain’t bothered by mostly nothin’, ‘less is like, a super strong odor.”

“Yeah, _ unless _that super strong odor is me not bathing for three days in the one hundred degree heatwave,” Rick mutters, wrinkling his nose. “You’re so weird, darlin’.”

“Okay, I’m weird, whatever,” Daryl agrees, nodding. “Can we have sex now?”

Rick lets out a long-suffering sigh which makes it seem like he considers it a great effort and a chore, but then he thrusts his hips to grind down on Daryl and, yeah, his not-so-hanging bit seems definitely interested in the proceedings. 

“Kiss me,” Daryl demands.

Rick grimaces. “My breath,” he reminds him pointedly.

Daryl rolls his eyes and buries a hand in his hair, then pulls him down into an immediately deep, demanding kiss. He pushes his tongue inside Rick’s mouth and licks at the stale taste, intent on proving to his mate that a small inconvenience like morning breath isn’t enough to deter him. The taste fades away soon enough, anyway, and then there’s just the overwhelming, intoxicating taste of Rick. They kiss for a time, just kiss, all lips and tongues and, in Rick’s case, teeth: he enjoys nipping lightly on Daryl’s lower lip, and Daryl lets him, and they both groan into each other’s mouths when their hips move so their groins meet in a sensual slide. Daryl loves the way Rick’s hands waste no time touching anywhere they can reach, running down his sides, rubbing and pinching and squeezing, scratching sometimes, leaving bright lines in their wake which fade away too quickly. 

Rick gets more into it the longer they continue to kiss, all signs of drowsy grumpiness gone by the time he presses two fingers inside of Daryl’s body, preparing him for what he really wants. The slick he’s using feels weird, but then at every other thrust, his fingers brush over a spot inside of Daryl that makes him see stars every time it’s touched. 

“Rick,” Daryl pants, pushing his hips down to force Rick’s fingers deeper. He needs more, wants more. Last night, they rushed through this after Daryl spent so long preparing and teasing Rick and driving him to the edge with a curious tongue and patient hands: when it came time for Rick to do the same to him, neither of them wanted to wait and Rick just made sure to use a lot of slick, and it was fine, hot and painful and so damn good. This? This is payback, Daryl thinks, this is torture, this is Rick’s petty little revenge for how Daryl drove him slowly insane last night before letting him have his orgasm. 

“Please,” he begs, then bites on his lower lip when Rick looks down on him with a smirk. Bastard knows what he’s doing, knows how worked up Daryl is, and he looks so damn smug about it.

“No,” he says, and continues to press his fingers inside of Daryl with a slow, steady pace. But at least he crooks them a bit, changes the angle somewhat, and he brushes that spot in Daryl every time now.

“You woke me up for this, sweetheart,” Rick reminds him, then kisses Daryl’s forehead affectionately. Daryl groans and tries to pull him into another deep kiss, but Rick resists and pulls away instead.

“Oh no, darlin’, you’re not calling the shots here,” he says. “You lie back all pretty for me and take what I give you. Hands above your head, now,” he demands, and Daryl pouts as he feels his face grow warm. He obeys the command, unhappy about it but unwilling to disappoint his mate, and he blushes even more when Rick looks down in appreciation at his body sprawled out on the mattress.

“You’re such a pretty sight like this,” the man sighs in contentment. He plants another gentle kiss on Daryl’s cheek and chuckles when Daryl glares at him. “Don’t be angry with me. I’m only giving you what you wanted.”

Daryl wants to protest that this teasing definitely isn’t what he wanted, but at that exact moment, Rick’s fingers press against that spot again and then begin to rub it in small relentless circles, and Daryl’s brain sort of short-circuits. A sound escapes him, high-pitched and desperate, and he rolls his hips to get Rick to give him more, more fingers, more than fingers, fuck, fuck, but this is so good; how come this feels so damn good? Daryl spreads his legs further and takes hold of the pillow under his head in a tight grasp so his hands stay right where Rick wants them, but that’s about the height of his common sense right now. He knows he must be a mess, writhing against his mate, begging and sobbing, thrusting his hips to meet the mercilessly teasing fingers massaging that spot deep inside him. He’s a mess, but he’s an inviting mess, he hopes, he thinks, he, he needs more, and Rick kisses along the length of his neck, licks and nips on the skin like he’s just wanting a taste, and- and-

“Please, please, please,” Daryl chokes out, breathless, mindless. He can hardly recognize his own voice, but it doesn’t matter when Rick presses a third finger against his rim, then pushes it in along the previous two, stretching him, filling him, so good, better, but not enough, not yet. 

“B-bite me, please, Rick,” Daryl begs, or demands, or bargains. 

“Soon,” Rick promises softly, whispering the word into his skin, and Daryl squeezes his eyes shut and nods frantically. He wants to say _ thank you, _but the three fingers all rub his inner walls and he can’t speak, can’t think, he can’t, he’s bursting at the seams, he’s drowning, he’s gonna-

“Just like that, darlin’,” Rick says, and bites down at the softer skin over Daryl’s collarbone, and Daryl _ screams _as his entire existence sort of explodes.

He comes to his senses a few minutes later, he thinks, or maybe it’s hours or days or years. It’s difficult to tell through the cotton candy wrapped around his brain. He feels like he’s floating in shallow waters, warm and happy, with the sun shining down on him in golden beams piercing the ocean’s surface. He can smell Rick all around him, but he hasn’t got the strength to open his eyes just yet, so all he does is bask in the warmth of his mate’s presence. 

“What, now you’re falling asleep on me?” Rick asks, disbelief and amusement mixing together in his voice. Daryl opens his mouth to tell him it’s his own damn fault for being a horrible tease, but instead of coherent words, only a soft rumbling sound comes out. 

“Oh, so that’s how you wanna play it,” Rick says and, ruthless man that he is, he wraps a hand around Daryl’s limp cock and begins to stroke it slowly. And because Daryl is unable to fight the surge of hormones affecting him, his cock twitches and begins to harden again in Rick’s grasp. 

“Rick,” Daryl says, drawing his mate’s name out like a threat. 

“You’re the one who woke me up,” Rick replies playfully. “Now you’ve got to suffer the consequences.”

So Daryl does, although _ suffering _is possibly not the best word to describe the rest of their morning together. 

The sound that woke him earlier is what wakes him up again around noon. It’s a phone set to vibrate, somewhere else in the house, and Daryl is torn between wanting to stay and laze about in bed, and wondering if maybe the Institute is calling him for something important. He’s on holiday, sure, but emergencies don’t exactly wait up. With that thought in mind, Daryl sits up in the bed, and only then does he notice that Rick isn’t in there with him. The blanket-covered lump of warmth he’d been wrapped around was actually a big plushie shark, not unlike those he won for Sophia and Carl at the amusement park. Well, bigger than either of those. It’s actually vaguely Rick-sized, and Daryl hasn’t seen any like it around here. Must’ve been bought online or something. It’s not important, anyhow.

What’s important is, where the fuck is Rick?

Daryl gets out of bed and, to spare his mate’s delicate sensibilities once he finds him, grabs a random pair of underwear from the dresser. He puts them on, grimacing at how constrictive the fabric is. Really though, why do people insist on wearing these things? Shaking his head, Daryl walks out of the bedroom and sniffs at the air. There are traces of Rick’s scent everywhere, which is not strange since it’s where the man lives; Daryl follows the most recent trail to the bathroom - empty - then down to the kitchen - also empty. He wanders outside to the patio in the back, but there’s no sign of Rick there, either. 

Worried, Daryl returns inside and retrieves his phone along with his clothes from yesterday. He’s only got two missed calls, one from Sophia and one from Eric. Sophia’s is accompanied by a text which says _ Mom’s birthday next week - call me! _There are no messages from Eric, so it seems whatever he was calling about, it’s not that serious.

Finding Rick is a priority now. What if he went swimming like a fool and the orca got him?

_ He can’t swim though, _Daryl reminds himself mentally and exhales loudly in an attempt to regain his zen. Rick wouldn’t go swimming, so there’s no way he could’ve been grabbed by the orca. Easy as that. Plus, the orca likely wouldn’t have any interest in a human. If it had, there would’ve been reports of people going missing or being found dead around the coast, but there haven’t been any. In fact, it’s been a good year so far, no drowners, no shark bites, nothing. The damn orca seems only to be interested in making a snack of Daryl.

Rick’s scent isn’t particularly strong where Daryl follows it to the studio-come-library upstairs. It’s actually smothered in lavender, chamomile and… coffee? Yeah, must be. And cinnamon, and. Something delicious. Something Daryl wouldn’t mind eating. 

“Oh, there you are. Slept well?” Rick asks from behind his desk. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and he looks amazing. He always looks amazing, but right now, after not knowing where to find him, Daryl’s so overcome with relief and that flooding, overwhelming sense of _ love, _his chest actually hurts at how beautiful Rick is in the full daylight as he’s apparently immersed in his work.

Indeed, the man doesn’t really look up from the computer as he continues to type at a fast pace when Daryl approaches. He lets Daryl hug him from behind and plant a kiss that lands somewhere between his cheek and jaw, but his hands are still on the keyboard and his eyes - on the screen. He smells like coffee because he must’ve been drinking one; there’s a giant mug on top of the desk, almost empty now, but the stains suggest it had been full to the brim at one point. There’s also a plate of sandwiches at the edge of the desk, and that’s the source of the delicious smell Daryl caught earlier: smoked salmon. 

“Go ahead and eat,” Rick offers, pointing towards the plate. “I made them mostly for you, I know what kind of appetite you’ve got.”

“Why’d ya disappear on me?” Daryl asks, ignoring the food for the time being in favor of wrapping Rick in an even tighter embrace.

The man squirms and wiggles in his arms, but doesn’t attempt to pull away or anything. “Now aren’t you clingy,” he notes with amusement. He finally stops typing for a moment and gives Daryl a smile. “I had an idea for writing. I couldn’t risk losing it, so I got up. You looked so adorable when you slept, though, I had no heart to wake you. I left you a note on the pillow.”

“Ain’t seen none,” Daryl mutters, but now that he thinks of it… there might’ve been a note, but since he didn’t have his glasses on him, he simply ignored the piece of paper he couldn’t read anyway. 

“Well, you found me,” Rick points out.

Daryl nods, and eventually, he loosens his grip on Rick, although he’s still reluctant to let him go altogether. So, yeah, he _ is _clingy. He can still blame it on the hormones. He’s just going to blame everything on the hormones and be done with it. As long as Rick doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t seem to: he relaxes into Daryl’s embrace and even gets back to typing, like he doesn’t care at all that Daryl can watch over his shoulder.

“By the way, I bought yer book.”

Rick hums encouragingly, and Daryl adds, “Lost it. Fell into the water,” and sighs. “Ya got a copy ‘round here? _ This sorrowful life,_” he clarifies.

“I know it’s not the best, but you didn’t have to chuck it into the ocean,” Rick jokes, chuckling at his own sense of humor. He points to the bookshelf on the wall to their left with his chin. “There should be a copy there. But I’m sure there are many better things you could do with your time-”

Daryl kisses him to shut down the self-deprecating remarks. He won’t stand for anyone doubting Rick. Not even Rick. 

“I’m gonna read yer book,” he says firmly, “and yer gonna do some writin’ an’ shit, and then we’re gonna go to dinner. Afterwards we’re returnin’ here, havin’ some more sex, and yer not gonna complain none. Deal?”

Rick blinks a bit dazedly - Daryl’s kisses seem to have that effect on him, sometimes, which Daryl also blames on the hormones - and nods, agreeing to Daryl’s terms without protest. Satisfied, Daryl grabs the plate with sandwiches and goes off in search of the book.

He finds it quite easily, tucked randomly in between two thick tomes entitled _ Lord of the Rings I _ and _ II_. This copy is in well-loved condition, it seems: there are a few bookmarks between the pages, and some pencil notes in the margins written in a chicken-scratch kind of script. Daryl reads one, narrowing his eyes and holding the book as far away from his face as he can, and realizes they’re definitely Rick’s notes. Corrections, or some details he was thinking about when he re-read his own creation. 

For some reason, the discovery makes him want to hug the book, or its writer, or both. He resists the urge and instead just throws Rick a fond smile over his shoulder, which goes unnoticed because his mate is already engrossed back in his new writing idea. _ Nerd, _ Daryl dubs him affectionately and goes back to the desk to try and locate his glasses. They’re there and he puts them on, gives Rick a quick kiss to the top of the head which is accepted with a soft hum, and heads towards the bean sofa where they spent such a nice time together yesterday.

The first thing he does is respond to Sophia’s text. 

He writes: _ gonna drop by tomorrow, write me if y need anything, _and sends the message. It’s a school day so he doesn’t want to get the pup in trouble by calling while she’s in class. He’s learned that lesson the last time Carol had to retrieve Sophia’s cell phone from a teacher. 

He also writes a quick _ whats up _to Eric, wondering why the man was calling him from another state; because Eric is in Atlanta right now, working with Doctor Williams on some thesis about tumors and shit. Nasty stuff, but useful in the long run, Eric said, and while Daryl hates to have his friend so far away, he’s also glad that Eric has the opportunity to further his knowledge alongside someone who’s an expert in the field.

A reply comes quicker than he expected: he doesn’t even manage to put down his phone before there’s a text in his inbox:

_ Heard a disturbing rumor re: Blake. Apparently he & his daughter _ ** _really_ ** _ like raw meat. _

There’s a video attached to the message which Daryl opens, vaguely impressed that his basic phone can even play it. The video shows something like a party in a room full of very smartly dressed people. At one point, the camera pans over a corner where at the table, Philip Blake and his daughter are standing together, munching on something that looks like tartare. As in, raw ground meat. Blake looks somewhat pleased and his daughter is downright happy, devouring the meat by the spoonfuls. 

So, okay, it’s a perfectly normal thing for people to eat. Daryl has heard that sometimes, humans enjoy meals of uncooked meat. But coupled with what he already suspects about Blake, this seems like a final confirmation:

Blake is the orca who attacked him, and his daughter inherited his carnivorous nature.

_ Explains the braces, _ Daryl thinks, and sighs.

_ lets keep it to ourselfs for now dont wanna cause panic _

Eric replies a few minutes later with, _ OK, it’s your call. _

With a sigh and a glance at Rick, Daryl decides not to do anything about the revelation just yet. It’s not like Blake can do anything to him on land, in a city full of people. Honestly, as long as Daryl avoids swimming in the deep waters, he should be fine. For now, he’s just going to enjoy his days off with Rick. 

He’s made plans, after all.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaat? Did I change the chapter count?  
Yes. Yes I did.

Daryl never understood why humans make such a big fuss out of birthday celebrations. To him, the anniversary of the day he was born never brought up too many nice memories; his mama didn’t really pay attention to dates in the callendar, and his daddy never missed a chance to remind Daryl and Merle how them being born did nothing but cost him money. The first time Daryl actually heard about the concept of birthday parties and offering gifts was when he met Carol, and she explained what the big deal was. Not that it changed Daryl’s mind any, but at least he knew. 

Even though he still doesn’t care much about this custom ten years later, Daryl has been taking part in Sophia and Carol’s birthdays after they arrived here in Virginia Beach. He dutifully helps in the party organization, buys gifts and takes a big part in eating all that food because the preparations make him hungry. Since he started working at the Institute, he’s also received his fair share of invitations to other people’s birthday parties, and he went to many of them after Carol explained it would be rude to decline.

He doesn’t celebrate his own birthday, though, if only because he’s got no idea when it’s supposed to be. His mama wasn’t much for keeping records and his daddy didn’t care about exact dates that the sons he hated popped out. Daryl’s is sometime in February, probably, but that’s about as much as he knows or cares to find out. 

Carol’s birthday is in early summer, which works well for her sunny personality. Every year up until now, she’s been the one to organize her own party, but this year, she’s busy with the Institute work and the wedding preparations; apparently, the latter takes a lot of patience and careful planning. Daryl’s never getting married, that’s for sure.

Although, maybe if Rick wanted to…

Whatever; today is not about him and Rick possibly getting married in the future, no matter how appealing the option suddenly begins to sound. No. No, no. Today is supposed to be all about Carol. 

Sophia is the mastermind behind the party this year. She had a lot of help from the people at the Institute, obviously, because there are many things you just can’t do by yourself when you’re all of thirteen years old. Daryl, as a legal adult, had to take care of supplying the alcohol, which he in fact enlisted Aaron’s help for since his knowledge of booze wouldn’t be sufficient. Plus he’s got no ID, so there’s that. 

Besides providing the alcohol, Daryl’s role was also to pay for the whole thing, a task much more difficult than it should’ve been: while he’s got a lot of money, it’s all being kept by Carol for safe-keeping. She’d grow suspicious if Daryl suddenly asked for a big withdrawal. She’d definitely start asking what he needs it for, and Daryl’s shit at keeping secrets.

Because, yeah. The party’s supposed to be a surprise. 

It probably would’ve been harder keeping it under wraps for the whole week before the date if Daryl didn’t have the time of his life on his little love holiday with Rick. When he wasn’t busy discovering new and exciting activities two men can engage in sexually, he used that spare time for reading Rick’s books. It wasn’t a lot of time, but he managed to finish _ This Sorrowful Life _ and now he’s started on the second one, _ No Sanctuary. _He doesn’t love it yet, not because it’s badly written or anything - it’s not, as far as Daryl can tell - but because it’s really… huh. No better words for it: it just ain’t Rick.

The first book was all about vulnerability and emotions, and how two men from entirely different backgrounds could form a great friendship that survived all kinds of tragic shit life threw at them. This second one… Yeah. It’s about a superhero-type dude who fights zombies to save his wife and kid. It still has some of the depth of _ This Sorrowful Life _ hidden in its pages, but it’s obvious to Daryl that Rick didn’t write this book for himself. He wrote it for sale.

But maybe it gets better later. Daryl’s only on the third chapter so far. He _ is _having a lot of sex these days. 

“We’re going to be late,” Rick warns when Daryl pins him to the wall and tries to steal a kiss. It’s not Daryl’s fault that he looks so absolutely irresistible in the blue shirt and dark jeans he’s wearing. A single glance at him dressed like this makes Daryl’s blood run hot, and he just can’t restrain himself. 

One would think, after almost two entire weeks of nothing but sex, cuddling, and occasional book-reading, he’d have enough, but if anything, he’s getting more addicted with each day.

“We got lotsa time,” he assures, slyly slipping a hand under the hem of Rick’s shirt. The muscles of the man’s abdomen twitch under his fingertips, and Rick groans softly.

“No, come on, not again,” he protests, fondly exasperated. “I’ll get a hose, I swear. It’s like you’re in heat or something.”

“I love you,” Daryl informs him, nuzzling into the damp curls behind his ear. They showered together half an hour ago, more or less. Rick took the time to rub him all over with a soap-coated sponge, although it was more out of curiosity about how Daryl’s body reacted to water than any real need to get him clean. He didn’t get to discover much because pipe water is nothing like ocean water, but at least Daryl got a very nice blowjob out of it. 

Maybe Rick’s onto something, though. It’s not exactly normal for Daryl to be aroused all the damn time, multiple times a day, regardless of how much sex he gets. Sharks don’t get _ heats, _that’s something mammalian to boot, but they do have mating periods. Maybe Daryl’s mating period is right now? He’s never been sexually mature before, according to Eric’s estimation of what’s happening to him, so he’s truly treading unknown waters here.

Rick sighs. “I love you too,” he assures, “but that doesn’t mean I can get it up again so soon. Besides, we really don’t want to be late to your best friend’s birthday party, now do we?”

“‘s gonna last all night anyway,” Daryl mutters unhappily, gently dragging his fingernails across Rick’s stomach. It elicits a soft gasp from the man, but instead of convincing him to go along with Daryl’s very enthusiastic groping, it just makes Rick push him away.

“No,” he says firmly. “We’re going to the party now. And I’m having _ words _with those scientist friends of yours. Maybe they can explain why you’re being like this.”

Daryl pouts, but it’s not very effective because Rick is very stubborn. In the end, they don’t have quick sex before the party, and they arrive at the beach on the Institute’s grounds before anybody else like _ losers. _Even Carol herself isn’t there yet. What’s the point of coming to someone’s party early if that someone isn’t even there? 

Turns out, it’s a good thing they’re early after all.

“Daryl, there’s a crisis!” Sophia cries as soon as she sees him. She looks adorable in her pastel pink dress. It matches nicely with the shark tooth necklace, Daryl thinks. It doesn't match all that well with the sadness she's emanating.

The girl grabs his hand. Her lower lip wobbles and her eyes are filled with tears as she announces dramatically:

“The cake is missing!” 

At that, Daryl frowns. 

He ordered the cake himself. It’s supposed to be a very specific cake shaped like a Mako shark wearing a crown, all according to Sophia’s specifications. The shop he ordered it from is located in Boston and it’s the most famous confectionery here on the East Coast, and Daryl had to place the order back in January to get a slot with them which he frankly finds ridiculous. He went through a lot of trouble for the sake of that damn cake, that’s for sure. Dumb thing costed more than Daryl’s monthly food, plus Daryl had to go to Boston to order it, and he had to provide a whole-ass 3D model of a Mako shark as reference.

And now the cake’s not there when it’s needed.

Riled up, Daryl asks: “Ya call the damn shop?”

“They’re not picking up,” Sophia laments. 

“Fuck,” Daryl swears. 

Rick looks at the both of them. “I’ll get them on the line, just give me the number,” he demands, already with his phone in hand. Daryl wants to kiss him, but he knows now is not the time, so he waits while Sophia passes Rick a business card. 

Ten minutes later, Rick is raging like the sea in a storm. 

“What do you mean, you forgot to inform us?” He asks someone on the other end of the line. His voice is raised and his free hand is tightened into a fist. Daryl’s never seen him angry before, but now he does, and the sight obviously fuels his almost constant arousal. There’s something primal about the man when he’s this agitated, something dangerous in his blue eyes, and the thought of Rick maybe using this energy to have his naughty way with him makes Daryl’s face grow warm. And his jeans grow tight. 

“Oh, don’t think we won’t,” Rick growls into the phone and hangs up. He looks at Daryl with a thunderous expression.

“Their delivery service got sick and apparently, they forgot to call you,” he says.

“What are we going to do?” Sophia asks helplessly.

Daryl sighs. “Gonna go get that damn cake,” he offers. “Tell Jesus I’m takin’ his bike.”

“You’re not taking anyone’s bike,” Rick protests. “It’s a ten hours ride to Boston. Who the hell orders a cake from three states over?”

“Wanted the best for my girl,” Daryl snaps. “And I made it in six hours last time,” he adds, crossing his arms. 

Sophia bites her lower lip. “Maybe we could catch a plane? It’s just an hour and a half by plane,” she suggests.

“How’d ya get a ticket for a plane?” Daryl asks, perking up.

Rick sighs. “Darlin’, you can’t go by plane. You’d need an ID to go through the gates,” he says softly. It seems like his anger is slowly giving way to resignation, until suddenly-

“Wait, I have an idea. Just let me make a phone call,” the man says and keys in a number. A few minutes later, he pockets his phone and gives Sophia a reassuring grin.

“My friend has a private jet. He’s agreed to take us to Boston. We have to meet him in fifteen minutes, though. Will you be alright here for a while?” 

Sophia brightens immediately, enough so that she tackles Rick in a brief but happy hug. “I’ve got everything here under control,” she promises. “I’ll keep the party going until you’re back with the cake!”

And that’s how Daryl finds himself on a plane for the first time in his life. 

“Woulda been better to swim there,” he mutters unhappily, casting a weary glance through the tiny round window. 

“Relax,” Rick says softly, patting him on the thigh in quiet reassurance.

“Yeah, dude, relax,” parrots Negan, also known as Rick’s publisher or, apparently, the owner of a small luxury jet he’s all too happy to offer up. If Daryl wasn’t too preoccupied with how far he is from the ground right now, he’d probably think about how suspicious it seems. Private planes aren’t toys a normal guy would share at the drop of the hat, after all. Plus the fuel for this thing must be expensive. Daryl should be finding it strange, but alas, his mind is on other things. Like falling. And dying. And Rick, but truth be told, his mind is always on Rick.

“Thanks for this, by the way. I don’t know how I’ll repay you,” Rick tells Negan, offering the man a pretty smile of the kind usually reserved for Daryl.

“Don’t mention it, man. You just gotta write more books for me,” Negan replies, then laughs like he just said a joke. He makes an aborted movement to put his hand on Rick’s arm, then shoots a quick glance at Daryl and retracts the hand. He just smirks when he notices how Daryl grabs Rick’s hand in a possessive hold, but he doesn’t address it in any other way.

Shifty fucker who’s wearing too much cologne, that’s what he is. Good thing he kept that hand to himself or he would’ve lost it. Daryl’s dislike for the man only grows, even though by all means, he should be grateful. He knows Negan is doing him a giant favor, and apparently doesn’t want anything in return. 

Only, it seems like he might be wanting Rick, and that’s not something Daryl’s willing to offer.

“How’s the latest one coming along anyway? You’ve been fucking secretive about it, I’m literally dying of curiosity,” Negan asks Rick, pretending like he hasn’t literally caught Daryl glaring at him viciously. It’s nice of him. Daryl’s sure he’d be ashamed of his possessiveness if he wasn’t so pumped up on hormones all the time. 

He sure likes to blame the hormones for a lot of shit he does.

“Well, I don’t want to spoil the plot too much,” Rick replies, sounding very teasing, “but you know what? I can tell you one detail: it’s about sharks.”

Negan laughs again, then shakes his head. “Ooookay, keep your secrets, Rick. I’m still going to read it before anyone else, so I still technically win.”

“I might let Daryl read it before you,” Rick warns. 

Daryl hums contentedly and leans his head on his mate’s shoulder in appreciation, and Negan rolls his eyes. 

“I’m sure I could put something against that in your contract,” he announces, “but I’ll let it slide this once. Next book, though, I demand I’m the first one to read it. Or I’m kicking you out of my plane!”

The two men continue to talk, bicker and generally tease each other over the duration of the flight, mostly ignoring Daryl’s presence altogether and letting him wallow in his flight-related, irrational fears. It soon becomes obvious that they’ve known each other for quite some time; Negan mentions Rick’s son and then listens to Rick recount his and Carl’s last phone conversation about the boy’s school-related woes. Despite Daryl’s distrust of the publisher’s intentions, he doesn’t appear to be anything but a good friend to Rick. Well, a friend and boss, but Daryl knows well that these two things do not contradict each other: Aaron’s his superior at the Institute and still a great friend, and Professor King’s been nothing but kind to him despite also being the guy signing his paychecks.

So Negan doesn’t seem to be so bad, all things considered. He makes Rick laugh and appears to really like Rick’s pup. Daryl still doesn’t think he’ll ever like the guy, but he decides he might graciously tolerate him around his mate. Sometimes. With strict supervision. 

And no touchy-feely stuff allowed, but that goes without saying.

Negan’s rich-man influence seems to reach across multiple state borders because there’s a ride waiting for them at the airport. Daryl can honestly say he’s never been in a limousine before and that he doesn’t want to be ever again. He hates cars and other confined spaces like that, that’s why he borrowed Jesus’ motorcycle the last time he had to take a long-distance ride. He also hates Boston traffic, especially when it turns out the driver lugging them around the city has a fucking death wish or something. Or maybe Negan wants to secretly kill them all. He _ is _sitting at the front of the limo in the passenger’s seat.

“Gotta catch up with my man Dwight,” he announced before he got in.

That turns out not to be the worst outcome; once they’re alone in the back of the car, Rick pulls Daryl into a kiss, slow and deep and nice, and says against his lips:

“I’ve never had sex in a limo,” and he starts unbuttoning Daryl’s jeans.

Obviously, Daryl’s totally on board, all misgivings about the car momentarily forgotten.

They can only use their hands since there’s no room for much maneuvering and anyway, neither of them thought to bring lube along, but still, with Rick’s fingers wrapped around his cock and Rick’s mouth on his skin, it’s suddenly the best half-hour ride of Daryl’s life.

Life has a tendency to complicate matters, though. The confectionery shop is closed when they arrive.

“I swear to fucking God, I’m going to sue these people,” Rick exclaims when the door doesn’t magically open after ten minutes of them knocking on it with various degrees of desperation. Daryl’s good mood is still sort of good because, well, sex makes him happy, but he can feel a headache coming. He doesn’t know about God or any sues, but he knows a lot about tearing things apart. The shop people don’t pick up the phone anymore, not even when it’s Negan trying to call them, and that just makes it all the worse.

Eventually, the publisher decides to call it quits. “Okay, guys, what do you wanna do? We can just stand here until midnight and cry, or we can find solutions. Personally, I prefer looking for some fucking solutions, but I’ll be hearing your input.”  
“We gotta get back,” Daryl mutters. “Sophia won’t be happy, but Carol ain’t gonna mind. She don’t even know about the cake.”

“We can’t go back without any cake, though,” Rick protests hotly. “There can’t be a birthday party without a cake!”

Daryl doesn’t ask why the hell not. He’s not sure he will understand the answer. These human customs are ridiculous most of the time and he’s got better things to do than trying to wrap his mind around them all. Things like procuring said cake for Carol. That seems much more worthwhile right now; he can think about dumb rituals later.

“I know a place,” Negan says thoughtfully, “but it’s in Georgia. You guys fancy a flight to Atlanta?”

“No,” Daryl mutters at the same time as Rick replies:

“Sure!”

They look at each other, Daryl with his eyes narrowed, Rick with a sort of promising smile on his face, and of course, in the end, there’s nothing Daryl wouldn’t do for his mate. Even if technically, he’s not exactly agreeing to this for Rick’s sake; it’s still about a cake for Carol. But Rick seems to want to go, and well, Daryl thinks he’d follow him straight to an orca’s gaping jaws if that was where Rick chose to lead him. Flying on a plane on what’s basically a wild goose chase… might not be so bad as all that. Right?

Not to forget, there’s that promising smile to take into account, too. Maybe Rick hasn’t had sex on a plane before, neither. Maybe he’d like to.

So that’s how Daryl finds himself on a plane for the second time in his life, on a flight twice as long, and for the most part, he doesn’t enjoy it any more than the first time. If there was any hope at the beginning that he’d get Rick to do nice sexual things to him, it died out along with Daryl’s arousal as soon as the plane took off. 

He’s a shark, damn it, sharks ain’t supposed to fly.

“Don’t be so grumpy,” Rick says, drawing him into a loose embrace that does a lot to help Daryl’s anxiety, but definitely not enough to really improve his mood. “I’ll have a reward for you when we’re back home, okay? I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“Sex ain’t the answer to everythin’. Ain’t gonna help me none when we’re dead ‘cause this tin can drops to the ground,” Daryl mutters, shifting to press his face into Rick’s chest. His mate reacts by wrapping his arms more securely around him and kissing the top of his head. 

“At least we’ll die together, though,” the man says fondly, probably amused at Daryl’s unreasonable worries. “It’s romantic, isn’t it?”

“Don’t wan’chu to die though,” Daryl protests in what he knows sounds like the whine of an unruly pup. Rick kisses the top of his head again, chuckling softly, and yeah, it’s sort of nice. Almost helps Daryl forget he’s many feet above sea level, in the company of an annoying dude that tries to unnecessarily touch Rick sometimes.

He’ll relax once they’re safely back at the Institute, with a cake or without it.

The _ place in Georgia _Negan suggested turns out to be a small-scale cake shop in a back alley in a suburban area of Atlanta. It looks about as trustworthy as a hungry shark in a fish shop, but Negan insists.

“These guys make the best fucking cakes in America,” he promises like an overbearing salesman, and it’s not like Daryl’s got any choice. They walk into the shop, where they’re immediately greeted by an elderly woman in a floral apron sweeping the floors.

“It’s closed,” she says in a derisive drawl.

“Aww, Lucille, don’t be like that,” Negan protests, approaching the woman and then drawing her into a hug which she resists only vaguely.

“Get offa me, ya big dumb child,” she demands vehemently.

Negan releases her and gives her the most brilliant smile. “Oh, love, I missed you a lot.”

The woman rolls her eyes and swats him with a rag she had in the apron’s pocket. “Naw ya didn’t. Woulda visited earlier if ya did, no? Prob’ly just here ‘cause ya got a favor to ask.” 

“Well, no,” Negan disagrees, “but also yes. Um. I’m here because I missed you, but my friends here,” - he points to Rick and Daryl - “they need a favor. A big one.”

Lucille looks at Rick, then at Daryl, then back at Rick, squinting suspiciously all the while. “Okay. This one’s cute,” she decides, motioning to Rick, “so’s I can spare one favor on him. Wha’cha need?”

“Ummm, a birthday cake. Best if it’s readily available, we’ve already lost a lot of time,” Rick says in an apologetic tone.

“Birthday cake, huh? What kinda bullshit is that?” The woman grumbles. Daryl wholeheartedly agrees, especially after having already had to fly a plane _ twice _to get one, but he doesn’t say anything. Lucille didn’t deem him cute enough to do him a favor, so he doesn’t want to draw her attention too much in case she decides he’s annoying and changes her mind about helping them.

Lucille sighs and heads behind the counter. “Y’all real damn lucky, boys, ‘cause I’s just makin’ a big cake for funsies. ‘s chocolate, that fine?”

“Sure, it’s perfect,” Rick says. He’s aware of Daryl’s fondness of chocolate. Luckily, Carol likes chocolate things as well, so this won’t be a problem.

Lucille packs the cake for them after adding a nice sugary inscription on it to congratulate Carol on her birth anniversary. It’s not shaped like a Mako shark, but it looks really tasty and smells so good Daryl’s mouth waters, so really, the shape doesn’t matter that much. Carol’s still a little pissed at Lizzie the Mako shark anyway, so maybe it’s for the best that the cake won’t remind her of that pet peeve.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lucille scoffs when Daryl asks how much he owes her. “All ya people with yer money. Money ain’t worth nothin’, innit? Just better buy somethin’ nice for yer mate there ‘stead of annoyin’ an old woman,” she suggests, motioning to Rick with her head.

“You’re abso-fucking-lutely the best, love,” Negan announces. If people had stars in their eyes like in those cartoons Sophia still watches sometimes, that’s what Negan would look like. 

“Oh shut yer mouth, loverboy,” Lucille says, but she doesn’t seem especially annoyed. “Now shoo. Off ya go. Wish yer friend a happy birthday from me.”

In spite of her somewhat harsh attitude towards Negan, she doesn’t protest when the man kisses her on the cheek. She just sighs and huffs when the publisher makes some vague promises that he’ll come visit her again soon, and she locks the door behind them when they leave.

It’s not until they’re on the plane yet again that Daryl realizes the woman called Rick his _ mate. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming next: Carol's birthday party! Will Negan invite himself to the celebrations? Will he annoy Daryl yet again? Will Rick ask Daryl's scientist friends about his shark mate's constant horny-ness? Will Eric be the one to brave awkward questions again?  
Tune in next week to find out that the answer to all these questions is...


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but at least that means there will be two chapters this week. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone!

The cake is a giant success, even if it arrives to the party very, very late. It’s already past eight in the evening when Daryl hands the box to Sophia.

“Sorry it ain’t shark-shaped,” he mutters unhappily, but Sophia doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s pretty anyway,” she assures him, “and mom’s going to love it. But you’ll have to tell me all about your adventures today! You flew on a plane!”

She excitedly drags him away to the catering area, and Daryl shoots Rick a helpless look. Rick waves at him, laughing a little, the fucker; he stays behind in the general beach area with Negan. Who’s obviously not had the decency to fuck off now that his job is done. No, the man invited himself along to the party like he thinks he’s welcome anywhere he goes. Worse yet, he immediately found Carol among the crowd and wished her a heartfelt  _ happy birthday,  _ accentuating it with a gift bag he got seemingly out of nowhere. 

Daryl wants the man away from Rick, but it’s got to wait until he’s done here with Sophia; the only thing he can think of right now is to write Jesus a quick text. Jesus replies immediately and promises to keep an eye on his mate, which is good enough for the time being. Daryl knows Jesus can be persistent if he wants to. Means that slimy Negan bastard won’t have much opportunity to touch Rick while Daryl’s away.

“So, how was flying?” Sophia asks, carefully transferring the cake from its box onto a very big platter placed on a push trolley. Obviously, she requires Daryl’s help with the operation, which he provides unprompted. He went through too much to obtain this cake. If anything bad happened to it now when they’re  _ almost there,  _ he’d literally cry.

“Hated flyin’,” he mutters by ways of answering the girl’s inquiry. He doesn’t think there was a single moment while he was in the air that he didn’t hate it. Why do all humans always want to fly, anyway? Swimming is so much better. And safer. 

Heck, Daryl would take swimming with a whole pod of hungry orcas over one more hour in an airplane.

“You’re no fun,” Sophia says with a pout. “How was Boston, then? Did you see anything interesting there?”

“Ain’t got no time for sightseein’,” Daryl replies, shaking his head. “But the baker woman in Atlanta was kinda interestin’? Wouldn’a guessed her shop was even a bakery from outside. She had this cake just sorta around, said she just finished makin’ it. Think ‘s gonna be good?”

“It smells good,” Sophia says in a self-assured tone of somebody who knows what they’re talking about, “and it’s chocolate. I don’t know if a chocolate cake even  _ can  _ be not good. I’m sure mom’s going to love it.”

“I hope so. We went to lotsa trouble for a damn cake,” Daryl informs her with a sigh. “Would suck if all that was in vain.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Sophia admonishes him with a grin. “Will you pass me the candles? Huh. I don’t remember how many we need…”

“Put them all in,” Daryl suggests with a shrug. “Who cares how many there are? Ain’t like they’s gonna count them or nothin’.”

“It’s supposed to equal the age of the birthday person though,” Sophia protests.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Well then, we gotta problem ‘cause I dunno how old Carol is,” he mutters. “Like, twenty? Something?”

“I’m thirteen,” Sophia reminds him sceptically. 

“Hell, that ain’t helpin’,” Daryl informs her. “When do humans reach like, a reproductive age?”

Sophia hums thoughtfully. “It differs,” she says eventually. 

Daryl sighs heavily. He should’ve asked Carol how old she was. He never paid much attention to irrelevant details like someone’s age; he’s not even entirely sure of his own. His knowledge of human reproductive age is quite limited, too; for all he knows, it can be anything between ten and thirty, so his original idea of taking that and adding Sophia’s thirteen years to it won’t work either.

“Let’s just put all of them in it,” Sophia agrees finally. “We’ll say it’s for the aesthetics.”

So that’s what they do. Sophia places the candles on the two lower tiers of the cake and Daryl sticks them in the top layer. They both do their best to make sure the gaps between the candles are roughly the same.

When the cake is all sort of bristly with candles, Sophia eyes it critically, then nods to herself. “Okay, you light them up, I’ll go and prepare everyone,” she says, and Daryl sighs, but doesn’t disagree.

He lights the rows of candles carefully, and at a sign from Sophia, he pushes the trolley out to the beach, to present it to Carol.

Normally, Daryl doesn’t want to be the center of attention, but in all honesty, it doesn’t bother him much right now since he knows nobody’s really looking at him. The cake draws everybody’s eyes, and then Carol when she steps up, beaming and happy, and then blows the candles to a chorus of  _ Happy Birthdays.  _

“Ya made yer wish?” Daryl asks her when the woman hugs him afterwards. He remembers how that’s apparently an important part of the whole birthday ritual.

“No need for that. I already have everything I ever wished for,” Carol replies brightly and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Pookie. Now go find your man while I have everyone hug me a lot, okay?”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees. That’s the plan. 

He looks around the crowd at the beach, but he doesn’t seem to be able to locate Rick. Or Jesus, or Aaron, which is a bit alarming. Eric is missing, too, though he’s definitely there somewhere: he came back from Atlanta yesterday, specifically for the party. At least there’s the guarantee that Rick isn’t anywhere alone with Negan, because Negan is there by the pier, looking out into the sea. 

Despite his better judgement, his strange, persistent dislike for the man, Daryl makes his way through the crowd to join Negan at the pier. 

“Ya seen Rick?” He asks once he approaches the publisher.

Negan shakes his head. “Lost him in the crowd somewhere,” he replies with a shrug. “Don’t worry, he’ll find you when he wants to see you. Man seems quite smitten with you.”

“Okay,” Daryl mutters. What now? Should he try that small-talk thing people are so fond of? It’s true that social gatherings like this are supposed to be an opportunity to interact with others… but then, does Daryl even want to interact with Rick’s loud-mouthed publisher?

Well, maybe he owes the man at least a little gratitude. He did save the day with that bakery in Atlanta, and no matter how distasteful Daryl found the flights there and back, he has to admit that without Negan’s offer to take them, this birthday wouldn’t have been so nice overall.

“So. Uh. Thanks for, ya know. All the help,” he says, nodding to the man.

Negan looks at him. “Yeah, you’re welcome. I’d never let a good woman’s birthday go without a special cake,” he replies, shrugging. “And I had a good feeling about Lucille’s baking. She’s formidable with dough and an oven, that woman.”

“Who is she to ya, anyway?” Daryl asks, curious. He can’t shake the impression that the elderly woman knew more about him and Rick than she should. She called Rick his  _ mate.  _ It’s not a commonly used word, is it? She could’ve meant it as in  _ buddy  _ or  _ friend,  _ sure, but then why would she tell Daryl to buy him something nice? It really sounded like she actually meant it in the same way Daryl does when he refers to Rick as his mate.

Negan smiles. “Lucille? She’s my wife,” he says softly, with a gentleness that’s not very characteristic in a bold guy like him.

He shakes his head when he notices Daryl’s look of disbelief. “You probably wonder at the age difference? I admit, it throws people off sometimes. We got married when I was eighteen, as soon as I was legally able to get married. Lucille was forty-four, I think, but it didn’t matter to me. She’s the love of my life.”

“But ya don’t live with her,” Daryl points out. 

Negan sighs. “Contrary to what you may think, couples don’t always want to be together all the time. I mean, I wouldn’t mind it. I still think she’s the most beautiful and the most interesting person I’ve ever met. But Lucille believes I should live my life and get used to the fact she’s not going to be around forever. Because she’s over sixty now.”

“Why’s it matter?” Daryl asks. “Age, I mean. Ain’t never wondered how old Rick even was. ‘s not like it’s important.”

“It is important to some people,” Negan informs him. It’s strange that he’s so patient and so willing to open up to Daryl all of a sudden. Earlier, on the flights, he didn’t seem to like Daryl any more than Daryl likes him. And yet. 

“It also makes some things difficult,” Negan adds. “Lucille always wanted to have children, but it wasn’t meant to be. We tried many times, in vain. I think that’s why she’s not so eager to see me all the time. Sometimes, she blames me more than she blames herself.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Daryl mutters, awkward. What’s he supposed to say to something like this, other than offer his sympathy? This is why he doesn’t go talk to people. They always overshare shit and act like everyone should know how to respond. Seriously, the only response to somebody else’s problems that Daryl can think of is eating them. That’s what sharks would do, if sharks had problems they could talk about to other sharks.

It’s so easy, being a shark. You just swim around, eat what you wanna eat, and don’t have a single care in the world. Definitely, you don’t need to go around worrying what to say to a guy you barely know who’s this close to crying about not having pups.

Now, Daryl really doesn’t know what to do. His relationships with his friends up until now didn’t prepare him for serious conversations about marriages, pregnancies and things like that. He’s half-tempted to just go away without a word, but that could be considered rude. He shouldn’t be rude to Rick’s publisher in case it impacted Rick in any way. 

He misses Rick. He needs to find him soon. Damn, he shouldn’t have agreed to get separated even for a minute. What if Rick gets lost? What if something bad happens to him? Of course, there’s literally zero possibility that there’s any danger awaiting Rick at the Institute, Daryl’s friends would keep his mate safe, but… what if? 

Negan must notice his growing anxiety. His demeanor changes back into the obnoxious, mocking posture Daryl recognizes from earlier as the publisher asks: “Hey man, what crawled up your big-man knickers, huh?” 

Daryl glares at the man. “Ain’t wearin’ none,” he snaps truthfully.

“Okay, that’s TMI,” Negan announces, whatever that means. “But also, same. Never saw the point, especially in summer. Like I need another layer of fabric to stick to my huge balls in this hellish heat.”

“Yer not impressin’ nobody with that kinda talk, man,” Daryl informs him, rolling his eyes. “Just sayin’ shit don’t make it so, anyways.”

“What, so now you wanna have a contest?” Negan asks, lifting an eyebrow. There’s an impish sort of grin adorning his face, crooked and gleeful. “Want to compare?”

“Dude, only thin’ I wanted from ya was ask if ya seen Rick around,” Daryl says, exasperated. He might be rising his voice. “‘s you started talkin’ ‘bout dicks. And just so we clear: I ain’t interested in no activity would end up with me seein’ yer dick. Bet it’s tiny, wrinkled an’ ugly anyway.”

“That’s rude,” Negan says with a pout that looks very out of place on his face. 

“Shut up,” Daryl tells him.

Negan laughs. “Oh, Daryl, man. You’re one straightforward fucker, aren’t you? See, that’s why I like you.”

“I don’t like ya,” Daryl mutters in reply.

“I know,” Negan admits. “Doesn’t matter. You’re entertaining. I’d keep you, but honestly, I’ve got no use for a brainless brute,” he mocks. “Rick, on the other hand… He’s smart, and Lucille is smitten with him. I’m really considering keeping Rick.”

“Ain’t yers to keep,” Daryl hisses. He’s seriously starting to wonder if anyone’s going to notice the publisher missing, and if so, would they connect the disappearance to a random sort-of janitor at the Alexandria Institute. Because he’s going to kill this guy. Rip his throat out, like he did to an old and mean bull shark.

Fuck, he’s so angry, he can hardly see straight.

“You think this is some sort of an endless love situation?” Negan asks, and his tone sounds both distinctly amused and rather dismissive. “Oh, boy. I’d think again if I were you. Rick is probably just having fun with you. He’s getting out of a bad marriage and you’re his rebound. That’s all there is to it.”

“Ain’t true,” Daryl says. “He loves me. Said so.”

Negan rolls his eyes and pats Daryl on the arm, like he can’t see the frankly hateful glare sent his way. “Sure he said so,” he agrees. “He’s gonna say anything you want to hear to get sex out of it. That’s how men work. He’ll get bored of you eventually, don’t think he won’t.”

“Shut up,” Daryl snaps.

He’s  _ this close _ to just attacking the man, any possible witnesses be damned. He almost does it, too, but then, in the literal last moment, he catches a whiff of the calming scent of his mate somewhere not far behind him, and all bloodlust leaves him in waves. 

He gives Negan a contemptuous look. “Ya better keep yer distance,” he advices darkly. “Rick ain’t need a pretentious buffoon with a small dick jumpin’ all ‘round him.”

Without waiting for the publisher’s reply, he turns on his heel and heads straight towards where he can smell Rick’s presence. He finds him easily in the tent erected just to the side of the entrance to the Institute. Most of the food is there on big tables, with some chairs placed around where people can sit and talk. 

Rick’s accompanied by Eric, and the two men seem to be deeply engaged in a conversation.

“- so, when you take into account that we’ve never had anything like this happen to him in all the years we’ve known him, you can understand why it’s just as perplexing to me as it is to you,” Eric is saying when Daryl approaches. 

“Oh, hi there,” Rick greets him, looking up with a smile. “Are you having fun?”

“Not really,” Daryl admits and grabs a chair to sit next to his mate.

Eric offers him a sympathetic smile. “Crowds were never your thing, huh?”

“Ain’t that,” Daryl mutters. He leans in closer to Rick and puts his head on the man’s arm, if even for just a moment. Rick takes the opportunity to kiss the top of his head. It’s more reassuring than Daryl expected. 

“Well, let me update you on our topic of conversation,” Eric suggests brightly. “Rick here came to me to ask about your… well, your unusual sexual appetites,” he explains. 

“Yeah, I told you I wanted to ask,” Rick reminds Daryl softly.

Daryl nods; Rick did mention this before. Said he wants to know why Daryl’s so ready to have sex like, all the time. Apparently, that’s not normal. 

Eric smiles again in obvious approval of how well they communicate, and continues: “Since I can’t say much about anything without running a little test, I thought it would be a good idea to take a blood sample from Rick. Compare it to yours that I already had on file. And what do you know? It seems that Rick’s testosterone levels are just as unusually high as yours. That led me to form a hypothesis that something in your body triggered a hormonal response in Rick’s. A chemical compound, maybe a pheromone you produce. Something that would be completely undetectable to an average person, but would have a major influence over your mate.”

“Working theory is it’s in your saliva,” Rick supplies. “If we want to test ourselves further, Eric says we can drop by the lab on Monday.”

Eric nods. “I could take a swab, try to identify the compound in your saliva responsible for Rick’s hormonal reaction to you. Maybe take some other samples. It could be interesting.”

“I don’t particularly care ‘bout no reason why we want each other,” Daryl says, nuzzling Rick’s cheek with his nose like an over-eager puppy, “but if ya wanna know, then fine.”

“It’s all a writer’s curiosity from me,” Rick replies with a chuckle. “It’s just something I think is interesting. Like the shark myths we read, trying to find the history of your species hidden somewhere. I don’t have to have that knowledge, I’m just so curious about everything connected to you. You’re fascinating, sweetheart.”

“You guys are adorable,” Eric comments. “I’m starting to feel like a third wheel here.”

“Sorry,” Daryl mumbles. He might be a bit too clingy right now, but that’s all Negan’s fault. The bastard riled him up more than Daryl wants to admit, what with his stupid bullshit about Rick not really loving him; it makes Daryl want to curl up in his mate’s arms and never let him out of his sight again. He’s never been so insecure about his place, about someone caring for him, but that’s because he never had reason to be. Romantic love is so much different from the friendships he’s formed over the years. It’s also so much more terrifying.

“No, it’s fine. I can even understand why you’re so attached to Rick, literally. If I interpret the hormone level tests correctly, even a moment apart must feel like torture to you, doesn’t it?” Eric guesses, giving Daryl a considering look. “Don’t worry, that’s going to go down eventually. It’s just the euphoria of new relationships. I think it’s so strong because the two of you are just very compatible.”

“Mmm. We are,” Daryl agrees in contentment. He knows it to be true, but after Negan’s bullshit, it’s nice to hear the confirmation from a third party.

Rick giggles as Daryl huffs a breath into his neck, tickling him. “We really are,” he admits, sounding almost like he’s intoxicated. “It’s funny, really. I never thought I could be into a man, before. But then I saw Daryl, and that was it.”

“But ya knew so much ‘bout sex with a man,” Daryl says, surprised. He remembers Rick saying he only dated one person before, though, and that was his now ex-wife. So this shouldn’t be news to him. 

Rick hums in amusement. “Porn,” he says, eyes twinkling as he smiles. “And a lot of more respectable research destinations, too, like sexual education sites. Plus, I bought a vibrator to experiment, to see what I liked.”

“What’s a vibrator?” Daryl asks.

Blushing, Eric gets up to his feet. “Okay, this is where I’m going to bow out of this conversation. Good luck, Rick.”

He leaves quickly, possibly to find Aaron wherever he is. Hopefully not somewhere alone with Jesus. Daryl wants to trust them that their betrayal of Eric was a one-time thing, but he doesn’t know if he can believe it. Not after that breakdown Jesus had when Daryl said too much about it. 

Jesus… has feelings for Aaron, it seems. Which sucks, because Aaron shouldn’t be having feelings for anyone who isn’t Eric. But he seems to have them. Yet, he still definitely has feelings for Eric, too, if Daryl’s nose is to be trusted. And Eric, just now, had a trace of Jesus’ smell on him, like he hugged the man before or something. Like he hugged him too long.

_ This is so damn complicated, _ Daryl decides not for the first time since he accidentally found out. Fuck, even a bastard such as Negan is simpler in his love for his elderly wife. If a guy who Daryl thinks is thoroughly evil can be faithful, why wouldn’t a good man like Aaron be able to keep it in his pants? And what’s up with Eric smelling like Jesus? This is weird. So weird. Too damn weird.

“Do you think we’ll be missed if we leave early?” Rick asks softly, capturing Daryl’s attention thoroughly, like he always does whenever he’s nearby.

Daryl considers it for a moment. “Nah,” he decides. “Carol ain’t gonna notice, she got too many guests. We just gotta tell Sophia so she ain’t worried.”

“Good,” Rick says. “Let’s go, then.”

They find Sophia easily where she’s talking to Tara and Denise, and the girl gives both of them a hug.

“Thank you for everything you did for mom today,” she says happily.

Daryl pats her on the head and bids her good-night, then lets Rick lead him out of the Institute. But instead of back to the house Rick’s renting, the man seems to head in the opposite direction. 

“Where we goin’?” Daryl asks, squeezing Rick’s hand holding his.

Rick chuckles. “Well, if I don’t get us lost, we’re going to your place.”

“My place’s at the Institute, though,” Daryl reminds him.

“No, not the apartment,” Rick says, shaking his head. “The shack? The one you showed me on that first date, with the fried chicken?”

_ Oh.  _ In fact, with everything else happening around him, Daryl sort of forgot that he took Rick there. Now that he remembers, though, he recalls how Rick seemed to like the place a lot. He’s starting to regret he didn’t take his mate back there even once during the two-week holiday they took together.  _ Honeymoon.  _ Like they’re married. Daryl thinks about how he really, really wants to marry Rick. To give him a ring. To be with him forever. 

He’s going to ask Rick tonight. He might not have a ring to propose with, or even a good idea how to do it, but screw all that.

He’s going to ask, and Rick will probably say yes, and Negan will never touch what’s Daryl’s ever again.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised on Tumblr, here's the second chapter this week. It's slower than normal, more emotional for Daryl, but I thought a break would be welcome before the next events unfold!

It’s close to midnight when they reach the shack in the cove. It’s quite a bright night, cloudless so the moon illuminates the beach with its gentle glow. The ocean is as calm as it can be, but the waves still create the calming ambient noise as they crash against the shoreline. The sound makes Daryl miss swimming. He hasn’t had the chance to really swim, not since Henry’s rescue operation. 

He understands the danger of swimming in the ocean with Blake still on the prowl. At least he supposes he’ll be able to go back to his usual night swimming with Henry and Lydia. If everything goes well, he’s actually going to be needed to help with the observation of Lydia’s pregnancy. Right now, Daryl’s not sure yet how he’ll manage to be away from Rick for enough time to be of any use to the Institute; after the two weeks spent at his mate’s place, being able to touch him and kiss him and have sexual intercourse with him whenever the mood struck them both, he’s not convinced he’s even capable of existing without Rick by his side. 

Was this how his mama felt about Will Dixon at one point in time?

“You’re contemplative tonight,” Rick observes, breaking the comfortable silence between them. He looks good in the moonglow, with his eyes bright like the sea surface on a summer morning. Sometimes, Daryl has to wonder if this man, this beautiful, beloved man, is even a real person. He’s like an ancient ocean spirit, capable of both rousing the storm in Daryl’s soul and calming it with just a single touch, a word, a breath of air on naked skin. 

Maybe he’s not human. Maybe, like Daryl, he’s a thing of myth, a personified legend from a far-away place. That’s why they’re so compatible. That’s why they fit together as if they were made for each other, sculpted into humanoid shapes from the same sand and salt and foam. 

“Tired?” Rick asks, squeezing his fingers and smiling.

“Not really,” Daryl replies, returning the smile. He should be exhausted after the day’s events, but he isn’t. There’s energy buzzing throughout his body, thrumming in his veins; he can feel it on the tip of his tongue when he speaks, on his fingertips, like the electricity marking the coming of a storm. 

“I love you,” he says. 

Rick stops walking, instead he pulls Daryl to him, wraps him in a loose embrace. He doesn’t need to reply with words; his eyes speak to Daryl’s soul, piercing and intense and sincere, and he knows this is not just some - what did Negan call it? Rebound? - this is not some kind of a distraction for Rick. This is true, possibly more so than anything either of them felt in their lives before meeting each other. This is it, their  _ happily ever after.  _ Their forever. 

He’s not sure whether it’s Rick who kisses him, or if he’s the one to lean in first to capture his mate’s lips with his own. It doesn’t mean a thing, who initiates what; what matters is that they’re kissing, tasting the love on each other’s tongues. Daryl doesn’t want to close his eyes, hesitant to miss anything like the specks of dust on Rick’s face reflecting the moonlight just so; still, he sighs into the kiss and lets his eyelids slide shut. He rests a hand on Rick’s hip, lifts the other to cup his mate’s scruffy cheek, and he strokes over the soft hairs gently. The hair all over Rick’s body fascinates him; throughout the last two weeks, he was able to fully contemplate and enjoy the dark fuzz growing over Rick’s chest and abdomen, and between his thighs. Makes Daryl’s body look almost hairless in comparison. Rick’s beard is thicker than Daryl could ever hope to grow, too, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers even now, when the kiss has to end for need of air. 

He’s said it so much over their time together, Daryl doesn’t even have the instinctual urge to scoff and deny it anymore. He accepts that Rick finds him attractive because there’s no evidence to the contrary; his mate’s scent betrays his attraction to accompany the words that fall out of his mouth. The truth of Rick’s feelings caresses Daryl’s senses, and he can’t help but sigh in contentment. He doesn’t care if it’s chemistry that makes them both feel this way; he doesn’t require a scientific explanation, doesn’t even want it. He just wants to be with Rick, for as long as his mate wants him back.

“Will you marry me, someday?” Rick asks, pressing the words into Daryl’s lips like another soft kiss. 

Daryl’s breath stutters. He looks at Rick, unable to find a voice with which to reply; his mate’s eyes meet his own, searching, soul-gazing, and Daryl tries to push his emotions to the surface so that his answer is clearly painted in his face. He’s never been good at talking about subtle, important matters, he’s never known how to find the right things to say, but this way of communication, through soft looks and gentle touches - that’s familiar to him. That’s how he communicates with sharks, the simple beasts who don’t really understand human languages, but can tell his meaning from the way he moves. 

Rick, who isn’t a shark, but maybe isn’t human either, seems to be able to understand him just fine, even when the words don’t make it past Daryl’s lips. He swallows the sigh Daryl lets out on an exhale, captures his soft exclamation of love and devotion in a kiss which feels more like a promise than a caress.

Daryl has heard the phrase  _ making love  _ before, but he didn’t know what it meant. He thinks he gets it now:  _ making love  _ is the combined feeling of Rick so deep inside him, wrapped around him, Rick’s hot body sliding against his own, breaths intermingled, the waves caressing their feet. Rick’s teeth marking him, leaving a possessive trail without ever breaking skin. Hands held as though letting go was unthinkable, heartbeats aligned: having sex never felt this way before, like it’s something so much deeper, so much more meaningful. Like it’s the joining of their souls, not just their bodies.

They don’t have to say they love each other anymore. The feeling is conveyed just as well, or maybe even better, in the way Daryl holds Rick close and presses his lips to his mate’s sweaty forehead, in the way they just lay there together, waiting for their frantic heartbeats to return to normal. 

Now, sharks aren’t romantic creatures. They lack the emotional capacity for any of the poetry associated with romance. They form attachments, though rarely are they long-term even if Great Whites, for example, have the learning capabilities to memorize people and other sharks. It’s just that they never evolved to need to rely on sentimental connections to others. Mating, for a shark, is all about procreation. Once the pups are born, the mother is about as likely to eat them as not; there are no familial ties between the mother and her young, just as there are no romantic ties between her and her partner.

Daryl supposes that despite his wishful thinking, he isn’t much like a shark after all. He’s been forming attachments left and right for years now, adopting all those people he met as a sort of family unit. His friends at the Institute. Carol. Sophia, who’s as good as his own pup as far as he is concerned. And Rick. His mate. His world.

If Daryl can never go back to the ocean again, he knows he could survive it. Without Rick? No way. In just a few short weeks, Rick has become the most important relationship in Daryl’s whole life. More so than Merle, more even than his mama. And Rick wants to marry him, one day. 

To Daryl, they’re already as good as married, with the moon as their witness and the ocean waves carrying their vows to the depths. 

“You’re lost in your thoughts again,” Rick notices. 

Daryl nods, then sighs softly. “Thinkin’ ‘bout you. Poetically.”

“Oh?” Rick looks up, inclining his head curiously. “Now you got me interested. Am I going to make a writer out of you yet?”

“Nah, don’cha count on it,” Daryl mutters, but the corners of his lips quirk up in amusement at the idea. “Just. I guess the mood is right,” he adds as an explanation.

Rick returns the smile. He hums thoughtfully before saying, “I feel like we already got married...” 

“Yeah?” Daryl asks. He lifts a hand to push away some locks of hair obscuring Rick’s pretty face from view. He tucks them behind the man’s ear. “Me too,” he admits.

After a few moments of silence, Rick exhales softly and shifts to a sitting position. He finds his clothes, or maybe Daryl’s. It doesn’t matter. He gets dressed slowly, not even bothering to button up the shirt or pants he pulls on. Once he’s done, he smiles down at Daryl who’s not in any hurry to move from where he’s sprawled naked on the sand. 

“I’ll have to fly back to Atlanta for a few days soon,” Rick says. He picks up a pile of sand, then sprinkles it in a thin layer on top of Daryl’s thigh. He starts drawing in it with the tip of his finger, and Daryl has to forcibly restrain himself from moving. He’s ticklish. He didn’t even know he was ticklish, but apparently, he is.

“Gotta finalize my divorce, get some stuff from my old home,” Rick continues.

Daryl hesitates. “Want me to go with ya?” He asks softy. His holiday is over, but that doesn’t mean he has to go back to work. He knows he’s got enough leave days accumulated for a quick trip to Georgia and back. And he’s not exactly essential staff; he’s certain much of the shark observation in the Biter Tank can be done with the surveillance equipment the Institute already has down there. Daryl would be an asset, but they can deal without him.

He just doesn’t know if he should accompany Rick back to Atlanta. Would it make it worse, somehow, would it have a negative impact on the whole divorce thing? That woman Rick had been married to, she seemed to dislike Daryl from first sight back when she saw Rick watching him in the aquarium during the tour. If Daryl went with Rick, would that look to her like Rick was flaunting his new relationship in front of her?

And, if so, could she somehow make it difficult for Rick?

Daryl has no idea how divorce really works. Carol’s was easy, that’s all he’s aware of. Ed never contested anything and Carol managed to have it all signed and resolved through a lawyer, without ever facing her ex-husband directly. Apparently, that’s not an option for Rick if he has to go. 

Does he really have to go?

“It’s better if you stay here,” Rick says. He smoothes the drawing in the sand against Daryl’s skin, effectively erasing it, and begins to draw again. “You don’t like flying, and besides, this would be very boring for you. It’s mostly court stuff. Not worth your discomfort on a plane.”

“Gonna miss you,” Daryl mutters. He bites down on his lower lip, careful not to break skin. 

“I’ll miss you, too,” Rick promises. At least, it sounds like a promise, sincere and earnest; Rick leans down to place a gentle kiss on Daryl’s thigh, above where his drawing is, and when he rises, there are grains of sand in his beard. They reflect the moonlight just-so, tiny speckles like stars in the vast sky of Rick’s face.

_ Here I go with that poetic bullshit again, _ Daryl thinks.  _ Maybe I should write him poetry.  _

The words required for that exist in his head, after all. He’s just not sure they’d translate that well to paper. 

“Can I… keep livin’ in yer house, when ya ain’t there?” He asks. 

Rick blows upon the sand on his thigh. “Of course, sweetheart,” he replies. He holds out a hand for Daryl to catch, then pulls him up to a sitting position. 

He chuckles as he finds something funny all of a sudden. “I think you lost something,” he notes between soft bouts of breathy laughter. He picks something up from the sand by Daryl’s hip and shows it to him.

It’s a tooth. Daryl’s tooth, definitely, since it’s pointed and has serrated edges, but is much too small to be a regular shark’s tooth. Daryl takes it from Rick, already tonguing at the his front row of teeth to find the gap; he finds nothing, so he assumes either the tooth already got replaced, or it was from one of the backup rows. He never even felt it fall out, but that’s not unusual. They tend to fall out now and again, with or without reason. It’s easy to miss it happening, especially when he’s busy paying attention to other things. Like Rick. 

“Can make ya a necklace outta it,” he offers, grinning in response to Rick’s amusement.

“That’s weird,” Rick replies. “Isn’t it morbid? It’s your tooth. It’s like wearing a piece of you as jewelry.”

“Sophia wears like, thirty-somethin’ pieces of me then,” Daryl reminds him. He doesn’t understand the hang-up. It’s not like Rick forcefully removed the tooth just to use it for some other purpose. 

“Okay then,” Rick says, giving in. “Whose teeth are you wearing?”

“Henry’s,” Daryl replies, and tells Rick the story of how he almost got eviscerated by his Great White friend. What to him is a somewhat fond memory, to Rick must sound like one of those horror stories about sharks that get so much traction in media; at least Daryl thinks so, judging by the widening of the man’s eyes and the quickening of his heartbeat the more he speaks.

“I wondered about those scars,” Rick murmurs finally, unable to stop himself from touching the bare skin on Daryl’s abdomen where the sharp marks left by Henry’s misguided attack are still deep and quite dark. 

“Can’t believe I never asked before,” the man adds, shaking his head. “And you say that shark is your friend?”

“He didn’t mean to hurt nobody,” Daryl assures his mate. “Was just actin’ like a shark. Nothin’ else.”

“I could’ve lost you,” Rick says forcefully.

“Ya ain’t known me yet,” Daryl reminds him, giving him a curious look. Why is Rick getting so worked up over this? He smells distressed, like he thinks Daryl’s still in danger. 

“Still,” Rick says, and sighs. He looks away, licking his lips. “I don’t like the thought of you being hurt, alright? And… it’s not unlikely to happen again. Right? You’re not going to stop helping sharks, and so it’s possible that another shark actually manages to hurt you irrevocably.”

Daryl pulls him into a loose embrace and nuzzles the top of his head with his nose. This sort of worry over a mate’s well-being is part of Daryl’s protective nature, too, so he can understand why Rick is acting like this. If Rick’s lifestyle carried so much risk of grave injury or even accidental death, he’s sure he would be rather upset about it, too. He’s incredibly glad that Rick’s just a writer. Being a writer doesn’t sound very dangerous. Rick’s not likely to sustain any injury more severe than a papercut. 

Hopefully.

“Can’t promise it ain’t gonna happen,” Daryl says. Honesty seems like the best way to go, even though he has a feeling this is not what Rick wants to hear. 

“I can’t stop doin’ my job. Can’t  _ not  _ go help when there’s need, ‘cause there ain’t nobody else can do what I do. And, Rick, I know savin’ one shark when millions are killed every year means very little, yes? But, Sophia told me, savin’ one shark means everythin’ to that one shark. Even if they ain’t grateful, ‘cause they don’t gotta know what  _ grateful  _ is, I know it makes some kinda difference.”

“One dead shark less,” Rick murmurs, and exhales softly. He doesn’t argue against Daryl’s reasoning, though. He doesn’t like it - his scent is pretty clear on that, a combination of worry and frustration among the sweetness of his love - but he seems to understand what saving sharks means to Daryl, and he doesn’t begrudge him that. 

A rumbling noise comes from somewhere around Rick’s midriff and Daryl blinks. 

“Um,” Rick says, shifting awkwardly.

“Is that yer belly?” Daryl asks. 

Rick nods. “I guess I’m hungry,” he admits sheepishly. “With all that happened, I didn’t get a chance to grab a bite during the party, except for some cake. I only had breakfast.”

Frowning, Daryl slowly gets up to his feet. He pulls on the discarded pair of pants he finds - they’re not his, he noticed, but like with Rick, it doesn’t matter which clothes are whose; he only gets dressed for Rick’s sake, anyway. He helps his mate up and walks towards the shack. 

“I got a fishin’ net, somewhere ‘round here,” he says, letting Rick inside. “Will ya be alright gettin’ the fire on? Ain’t a complicated fireplace, just a normal fire in a pit.”

“I think I’ll manage,” Rick assures him, already crouching in front of the pit to start on the task. 

Daryl finds the net and goes out again. The cove is a perfect fishing spot, which is one of the reasons he built his backup house here, why he installed the small pier. Of course, his normal fishing methods include mostly swimming around and opening his mouth at the right time, but that’s not going to cut it. Not with Blake’s whereabouts unaccounted for at the moment. Fortunately, he knows how to catch fish with a net, a fishing rod, heck, even with a pointy stick. He learned as a pup back in Georgia. Back then, he caught his fish in rivers and lakes, but he’s since found out it’s not that different from catching them in the sea.

He can hear them swimming, after all. Smell them approach. The only thing he needs to do is throw some bait in the water and the fish come on their own. Within half an hour, more or less, Daryl’s managed to catch two fat tunas and some herrings, which he supposes will be enough to feed Rick for the night. He might even have a snack himself, judging from how Rick doesn’t seem to eat much at all.

When he goes back to the shack, the fish already gutted, Rick’s managed to get a fire going. Daryl makes an impromptu spit stick out of a branch he found outside, and stabs it through the bigger fish.

“Gonna make a roast,” he announces. “Ain’t the best cook, though. I usually don’t need stuff cooked. Don’t use spices neither.”

“I found salt and pepper,” Rick says, shrugging. “That’s enough for me. It’s been years since I had fire-cooked food, anyway. It’s almost like when I went camping with my dad as a kid,” he adds, laughing.

“Oh? It a funny story? Tell me ‘bout it,” Daryl demands, sitting down in front of the fire, right next to his mate. “We got time ‘till the fish are done anyways.”

Rick nods. “Don’t know if it’s really that funny,” he warns. “Me and my dad, we used to go camping every summer. To build a better bond, he said. I hated it at the time, because I was one of those kids who think spending time with their parents is lame,” he shakes his head. “Of course, I forgot all about hating it by the end of the first day. It was just a lot of fun. Dad was pretty terrible at all that woodsman stuff. It always took us  _ hours  _ to erect a tent, even when we had printed instructions. And we never actually had all the essential items with us, would you believe it? Dad made lists, but somehow, he still managed not to pack everything. Sleeping bags, one year. Raincoats.  _ Socks,  _ how the hell do you manage to forget about a change of socks for a trip?”

He laughs, and Daryl chuckles, too. Not because he finds it particularly amusing; it’s just Rick’s laughter is infectious. 

After a moment, leaning close against Daryl to rest his head on Daryl’s shoulder, Rick continues his story:

“We were terrible at camping, but there were nice things, too. We’d go hiking every day, and you’re from Georgia too, right? So you know how beautiful the forests there can be. And dad insisted on doing all those typical camping things. Like hunting, though we never actually killed anything. I think he missed his shots on purpose. I mean, dad was a cop, he knew how to shoot, but he never managed to kill so much as a squirrel. So I think it was on purpose. When we went fishing, I had to kill and clean the fish we caught. He said it was to build character,” he says, and shakes his head fondly at the memory.

Daryl hums. “Ya think ‘twas ‘cause yer dad’s a wimp?”

Rick laughs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I think he was,” he admits sort of sheepishly. “He’d faint if he saw you eating raw meat, that’s for sure. And, well. We always cooked the fish over the fire, and believe me, dad wasn’t a great cook and neither was I. We’d always end up with the outside of the fish charred and the meat raw inside, and it was both disgusting and… Well, I guess, some of the best stuff I’ve ever eaten.”

“Why?” Daryl asks, frowning a little. “D’ya like badly done food?”

“It’s the magic of nostalgia,” Rick says, smiling fondly. “The things we remember may not have been so amazing at the time when they were happening, but our memories make them sweeter. Even more so if it’s something we’ll never be able to experience again. Like those camping trips with my dad. He died when I was fifteen, and I think that was the first time I looked back upon our trips and appreciated them instead of pretending to hate them. Dad was gone, and so were the trips, and nothing would ever be the same again.”

“Could take yer son campin’,” Daryl supplies. “Ain’t the same, but it gonna be memories for him.”

Rick blinks and looks up on him. “You think he’d want to go?”

“Well, way I see it, it don’t matter if he wanna go. Y’all should go campin’ together, an’ be bad at it, an’ eat raw fish, ‘s long as y’all do it together. So he has memories. Sounds pretty special to me, memories of a dad who ain’t hatin’ yer guts,” Daryl explains. 

He’s never wished for his daddy to have been different; there’s no point in regretting shit he didn’t have any influence over. Will Dixon was a right bastard, a violent drunk who hated everybody, and Daryl’s not going to spend any time wondering about any what ifs. His childhood sucked, but it’s all in the past. It’s done and over. 

Maybe it’s because he’s a shark. Sharks don’t feel nostalgic over stuff… but then again, Daryl does.

He doesn’t regret that his daddy wasn’t a good man, but he does regret that his mama died when he was still so young. The memories he has of the time spent with her gives him the same feeling of nostalgia he supposes Rick is talking about. The taste of the ocean water that first time mama took him swimming. The feeling of her rough-skinned hands skimming along his sides when she taught him to tread in the water, back when he was but a pup who barely knew how to talk. The first fish he caught under mama’s instructions, the praise she showered him with, the taste of raw meat, the way mama explained how food is at its own nutritious when freshly caught. 

“Even completely normal stuff can make for good memories, huh?” He asks softly, looking into the fire. 

Rick nods. “Things you take for granted,” he adds. “Things you don’t appreciate enough until they’re gone.”

Daryl wraps an arm around his waist, just to hold him closer. “Don’t become one of those things for me,” he pleads in a whisper. “Don’t wanna look back on today an’ regret how it ain’t gonna happen again.”

“You won’t have to,” Rick promises firmly. “You’ll see. Fifty years from now, we’re going to sit in front of the fire like this again, maybe even here in this shack. We’ll have badly cooked fish, and we’ll joke about how all your teeth fall out from old age. You’ll have more scars from your shark adventures and I’ll probably go bald by then, all your fault, by the way, I’ll have ripped it all out worrying about you. We’ll both be wrinkled all over, we’ll probably have trouble controlling our bladders so we’ll be rather disgusting, but Daryl, I know this: even old and stinky, we’ll still be in love.”

Grinning at the joking way Rick talks about it, Daryl kisses the top of his mate’s head, quite content as he breathes in the smell of sweat in his hairline. 

“I love ya,” he says, and doesn’t wait for an answer before he gets up to find a plate for Rick. But he can’t quite stop smiling, even when Rick makes a face at how the fish turns out to still be raw inside while the outside layer is almost completely burned. 

He can hardly wait for the future they’re going to have together.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so many great plans for this week! I was supposed to update SO MANY stories. Write SO MANY MORE. But then the virus thingy made the Polish government decide to put us on lockdown and my workplace went crazy, so I literally didn't have a moment to breathe since Tuesday. At least I finally managed to finish this chapter.   
Also, why, yes, the chapter counter went up by 2 again, but I'm (quite) sure it's the final increase.

Daryl absolutely hates being examined like a lab specimen. Even when it’s Eric doing it, he feels a bit apprehensive in the presence of needles, test tubes and wall posters depicting the anatomy of various species of sharks. Not to mention, the disinfectant Eric is using for his equipment stinks, and the lab coat he’s wearing reminds Daryl of evil scientists in cartoons he watched with Sophia. Of course, reasonably, he knows Eric is not an evil scientist and nothing he does is going to be used to hurt him. His fears, however, aren’t especially reasonable. 

Merle wasn’t scared of anything, and look where that got him.

“If you tense up any more, I’ll never find the vein to draw blood,” Eric says, rolling his eyes at the way Daryl curls up in himself. “It’s not the first time we’re doing this. Why are you so difficult today?”

“Ain’t difficult,” Daryl protests in a huff. “Just. Don’t like bein’ stabbed.”

“Big bad shark, afraid of a little needle,” Eric mutters, rolling his eyes  _ again.  _ It looks like he’s having a stroke or something. Maybe he is. Does frustration with someone’s stubbornness cause strokes?

“You can hold my hand if you want,” Rick offers in an encouraging tone of voice, smiling prettily. Daryl gives him a glare, because Rick is the only reason they’re even here right now. Rick and his damn curiosity. 

Does it even matter why they’ve been very sexually active with each other? Daryl thinks it’s not important  _ why,  _ he just cares that they both enjoy it, and. They do. Mostly. When Rick isn’t trying to shoo him away with a stick. Not  _ literally,  _ of course, Rick wouldn’t go waving a stick around. But, metaphorically. Sometimes, apparently Daryl’s eagerness to be with him is too much. 

So maybe it is something worth examining. Doesn’t mean Daryl has to like it.

“There you go,” Eric announces, pulling the needle out of Daryl’s arm. Funny; looking at Rick, Daryl didn’t even notice it go in. 

Having obtained Daryl’s blood, Eric already has everything he said he needed: samples of hair follicles, skin tissue, saliva, urine and even sperm from both him and Rick. Whatever he requires all these for, Daryl can’t even begin to guess. Maybe he’ll be putting them in bombs to throw at people. 

Nah, he probably won’t do nothing like that. It would be incredibly stupid. What would bombs like that even do?

“Now, some of the tests I need to run will take a few hours. Others might take days. Don’t worry, I’ll keep both of you updated,” Eric promises, blissfully unaware of Daryl’s somewhat ridiculous train of thought.

“You have my phone number, right?” Rick asks. 

“Oh yes. I’ll call you when I have something interesting to tell,” Eric assures and pats Daryl on the arm. 

He and Rick are just about to leave when Jesus drops inside like a very hungry shark, babbling from the get-go without paying any attention to anyone besides Eric. 

He says, “I just read the best thing ever! Did you know that killer whale matrons sometimes choose  _ many partners  _ to form harems when they aren’t sure they’ll be able to conceive with just one male? And there’s like this giant deepwater orgy going on until the matron is pregnant. She keeps her harem around, too, until the young ones are out and about. Isn’t that just cool? Uh, hi Daryl.”

He looks incredibly sheepish once he notices Rick and Daryl. Even more so when Daryl gives him a pointed, narrow-eyed glare.

“Just so you know, I’m not suddenly turning into orca-lover,” he mutters, “it’s all just research. I swear. Not liking those bastards, not one bit.”

“Paul,” Eric says, shaking his head. “You’d best go back to your research. Or better yet, go ask Aaron if he has any tasks for you. Go.”

Jesus casts an uncertain glance at Daryl, but before anything else can be said, he takes Eric’s advice and runs off as fast as he came.

“Well that was weird,” Rick announces. He looks at Daryl, then at Eric, questioning. 

“He’s being paranoid,” Eric explains. “He just heard a rumor there’s going to be a new system here at the Institute and he might not get a post with Professor King to continue his studies. Apparently the government isn’t quite convinced we need as many staff as we actually do. They’re trying to limit the hires to just the essential staff for each specialization. And we already have a lot of people specializing in sharks.”

Daryl feels a pang of irritation at how it’s money again that seems to make everything difficult for people. He remembers the Blake bastard, how he kept saying he’d like to help secure funding for the Institute. How he asked Daryl for dinner afterwards, and how he wasn’t too happy with the rejection. 

Is this some sort of petty vengeance, then? Not only is the stupid prick making it impossible for Daryl to go swimming like a normal person, he’s also stirring trouble for the Institute now?

He can’t help but wonder one thing, however: “Why damn orcas, though? I mean, the Institute ain’t studyin’ orcas anyways.”

“No, but there’s a good facility up in Baltimore specializing in marine mammals. It’s not that far from here, four hours by car, so he’s been looking at that. They’re somewhat better funded because they work with some cosmetics company, and they’re hiring non-stop,” Eric says, shrugging. “I’ve been trying to tell him that if his post here was threatened, I’d resign to make room for him, but Paul refuses to be reasonable.”

“Why’d ya wanna resign?” Daryl asks. 

Eric chuckles. “I know it probably doesn’t seem like it to you, love, but I’m actually not just a geek with an unhealthy interest in a sharkboy and his lover. I happen to be a world-renowned specialist in shark anatomy. If I want to, I can work anywhere I choose and they’ll accept me with open arms.”

“I just wanted to ask, what’s the problem with orcas?” Rick pipes in. “I know they’re predatory towards sharks sometimes, but I didn’t know we’re all supposed to hate them?”

“Daryl hates them,” Eric replies as the same time as Daryl says:

“I hate them.”

They all look at one another for a moment, before Daryl sighs and adds:

“I’m bein’ hunted by somethin’ might be an orca. We’re damn sure ‘s an orca, anyways.”

“What do you mean, you’re being hunted? Why wasn’t I aware of anything like that?” Rick asks, and he’s definitely not happy. He’s frowning, both confused and frustrated in equal amounts. Daryl can smell it on him. 

“Didn’t wan’cha to worry,” Daryl mutters and licks his lips. Anger always makes him nervous. He doesn’t know how to react when someone’s angry with him.

Rick doesn’t seem to be angry with  _ him,  _ precisely, however. He looks at Daryl like he’s trying to understand his reasoning, but finds it difficult. Finally, he shakes his head and looks away, to Eric, instead.

“Tell me more about that orca threat,” he demands. “I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark about important things.”

Eric silently asks Daryl for confirmation before he nods and begins a quick explanation of the situation. What he tells Rick is just the vague outline without any details - he certainly doesn’t mention that Rick’s son goes to school with a little girl who might be an orca herself; no names, no specific dates of attacks, definitely not a word about Blake’s threat two weeks back. Rick doesn’t need to be aware of that. He’d only worry more. He’s got that broad imagination and he’d likely use it to come up with the worst scenarios. He  _ is  _ a horror story writer, after all. 

“So let me get this straight,” the man says once Eric finishes his recount of the events. He looks at Daryl with piercing eyes, like he’s trying to look into his soul. “You can’t swim in the ocean because there’s something there that’s trying to kill you. To  _ eat you,  _ which is frankly the most terrifying shit I’ve ever heard of. You haven’t felt safe for the last two weeks at least, and yet I’ve never been told a thing about it because you didn’t want me to worry? Daryl.”

Awkwardly, Daryl shifts his stance to a more defensive one, wondering what he should say if Rick really does get angry with him. It’s not like he has a good explanation for hiding shit from his mate. 

“Do you know how awful it’s making me feel now?” Rick asks.

It’s far from what Daryl expected, so he blinks and tilts his head. “Huh? What? Why?”

“These last couple of weeks, together with you… I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my life,” Rick replies, shaking his head. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from Daryl’s eyes, but drops his hand when Daryl’s initial reaction to the touch is to flinch away, expecting - for no reason at all! - to be hit. 

“Rick,” Daryl whispers, and takes hold of that hand. He raises it to his face, nuzzles into it with his cheek. 

Rick exhales softly, licks his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, and looks down. “I was so happy, I couldn’t even think straight, and I never realized all this time, you were in danger. You were trapped on land, weren’t you? You were basically stranded with me, and I was so blinded by everything else we did, I never even gave it a second thought. I didn’t even wonder why you never went swimming even though I knew you loved the freedom it gives you.”

Daryl repeats his name in a gentle whisper. “Rick,” he breathes, and moves forward so that their foreheads touch and their chests align. “I ain’t unhappy with ya,” he reassures in a low voice, then clicks his tongue when Rick scoffs at the words. “No, really. Listen to me. It ain’t on ya. The orca shit, it ain’t on ya. Y’all gots nothin’ to do with this shit. And it ain’t true I been trapped. I coulda gone swim anywhere. There’s a lake some ways outta there. Hell, coulda gone swimmin’ in the bay, somewhere I ain’t been before. Ain’t like the orca got me tagged or nothin’. I chose to stay with ya this whole time, Rick. ‘cause I love you. Wanted to be close. Okay? So ya got nothin’ to blame yerself for.”

“I’ll find whoever’s threatened you,” Rick promises darkly. “I’ll find them, and I swear, orca or not, I’ll rip their fucking throat out.”

There’s nothing else Daryl can do but kiss his mate, all soft lips and gentle touch, calming, loving. Getting agitated will get them both nowhere, and besides, Rick has other things to worry about right now than a killer whale dude who might be trying to eat Daryl sometimes.

Or fuck him. Daryl’s pretty sure Blake was into that, before he got rejected.

“I know it might be a lot to ask,” Eric says tiredly, giving them a look that perfectly combines amusement with exasperation, “but do you guys think you can go comfort each other somewhere else? I’ve been trying to set up some of my actual work here, the things I’m being paid for? So if you don’t mind,” he makes a shoo-ing gesture towards the door. 

“Sorry,” Rick murmurs, and pulls Daryl out of the lab by the hand. 

Even though Daryl should technically be back to work today, Professor King called last night and told him it’s fine if he wants to extend the holiday by a couple more days. Apparently, Carol informed him that Rick would be leaving for Atlanta on Wednesday, and he’s unexpectedly sympathetic to their circumstances. A part of it might be because there really isn’t much to do at the Institute that the other staff and the undergrad volunteers cannot do; Daryl’s day-to-day work consisted mostly of cleaning the harder-to-reach filters, sweeping the floors and helping to feed the sharks when he managed to convince the feeders that he really wanted to do it. 

Sure enough, now that the majority of the people at the Institute know more-or-less that Daryl’s not a regular human, he doesn’t even have to do a lot of convincing. 

“Sure, man,” says T-Dog, the guy in charge of the mid-afternoon feeding shift, when Daryl asks if he can grab a bucket of tuna and go feed the young blacktips with Rick. “Hey, good job on Henry’s fin that time, by the way,” the big man adds and claps Daryl on the arm in a friendly fashion. 

Daryl blinks, uncertain. “Um,” he says.

Rick chuckles. “He’s shy,” he tells T-Dog, who laughs like it’s a good joke, pats Daryl’s arm again and then returns to his work, humming some tune under his breath. 

There really isn't much philosophy to feeding sharks, especially not the smaller ones who do quite well in captivity. The blacktip reef sharks currently at the Institute were actually born in captivity in a facility in Australia. Daryl doesn’t know what exactly went on behind the scenes to get the young sharks here, but he supposes it has a lot to do with how they make for a great tourist attraction. Blacktips, even young, look like your typical shark from the movies, so they’re considered interesting enough to show off in any aquarium, even the smaller ones in Europe. They don’t need the amount of space like the bigger species because their home range is comparatively small, and they even do well in social groups. 

Feeding them is pretty much just dropping the food into their tank at regular times every day and night. Usually, the feeding is observed by the visitors who want to see sharks eating stuff for the fear-factor. Blacktips look a little like Great Whites when they feed, only smaller, so Daryl can totally understand the appeal: he likes watching Henry and Lydia eat, too.

He didn’t think Rick would be so eager to feed sharks, though; the excitement his mate is exuding makes Daryl’s heart beat faster. 

They sit at the edge of the tank’s feeding pool and Daryl opens the two square gates. He grabs a pair of gloves stashed on a shelf in the corner and passes it to Rick.

“Un-frozen fish are kinda disgustin’,” he explains. 

Rick huffs, but puts on the gloves and reaches in the bucket for a piece of tuna. He frowns at it, examines it from every side, no doubt coming up with a detailed description for it which he may use later in his book, before he finally drops it into the tank. 

It’s not so easy to see inside from here because the top of the tank is solid and dark blue, but the square gate still lets them see how the sharks below begin to move more frantically once they sense their prey. It makes Rick laugh like an over-excited pup, and he doesn’t wait before dropping a few more chunks of fish down the tank. 

“Look, look, they’re both swimming towards the same one,” Rick points out, and sure enough, there are two sharks heading to a particularly large chunk. The smaller shark gets there first, snaps up the piece of food and swiftly swims away before its slightly larger sibling decides to commit an act of fratricide over lunch. 

“That was a close call,” Rick says.

It wasn’t, but Daryl’s not about to correct him. 

The fact is, blacktip reef sharks that live in close quarters like this rarely eat each other. It happens with adult specimens in the wild, most commonly because sharks will eat whatever and they’re not very judgemental about cannibalism. But in captivity? Nah, Daryl hasn’t heard about it, not with this particular species of shark. It’s another reason they’re good to be kept in aquariums. Makes it relatively safe to show them to audiences of any age.

Unlike Mako sharks. Those little shits eat each other left and right. At least according to Carol.

“Are they boy or girl sharks? Can you tell?” Rick asks curiously, throwing in another piece of fish into the tank. He’s started aiming towards specific sharks and he cheers on them to get to their food before it’s stolen. 

Daryl hums. “Could, if I’d went in,” he says. “From here? Not really. The large one’s a girl, I think, don’t see no boy parts. Others? No idea.”

“Huh,” Rick says. “Pity. I don’t suppose they have names?”

“Nah,” Daryl replies. “We name the adults mostly. Sometimes the pups if we tag an’ release ‘em. These guys ain’t gonna be released ‘till winter, so no names yet.”

“May I name them?” Rick asks hopefully. “I mean. Not official names or anything, just for fun. I think I know enough gender-neutral names.”

“Be my guest,” Daryl agrees, grinning at his mate.

He thinks about how it’s almost like Rick’s going to be naming  _ their  _ pups. Sure, they’re not going to have pups together, neither of them has the correct genitals for that, but still. It’s a nice thought. A happy thought. 

Maybe he’ll ask Carol how to look into adopting a pup of their own, later.

About an hour later, the bucket of fish is all gone and the blacktip sharks below go back to their usual business. They all have new names now. The largest one that is most likely a female is called Alex. Her sibling who stole a few pieces of food from right under her snout is Charlie, and then there are Dylan and Devon who swim next to each other all the time. There’s also Francis with a sort of an unusual marking on the dorsal fin, and Riley, the smallest of all the sharks in the tank. The last one’s name is That Ungrateful Bastard because instead of catching any piece of fish Rick specifically aimed its way, it circled around its siblings and stole theirs every single time. 

Daryl sure as fuck is going to make sure the names stick. He’ll have a hard time convincing everyone to put  _ That Ungrateful Bastard  _ in the official papers, but damn if he doesn’t try. If it goes down to it, he’ll just tell them the name’s TUB. Not the weirdest shark name in history, and nobody would be none the wiser. 

“I had so much fun today,” Rick informs him once the feeding pool is all securely locked again. 

Daryl squints at him. “Ain’t like today’s over,” he reminds him. “‘s just afternoon. We should go eat.”

“Mmm,” Rick agrees. “The steakhouse? Or would you like to try something more fancy?”

“Steakhouse’s plenty fancy,” Daryl decides without hesitation. His mouth already waters at the thought of Abraham’s specialty rib-eye steak. 

They go have lunch, and as they eat, Daryl catches a conversation between the two waitresses, Tina and Cheeky. Normally he’d just ignore all background noise and concentrate on his food - or on Rick, because obviously he’s completely unable to focus on anything besides his mate when they’re together - but what catches his attention is the topic of their chattering:

_ The Queen of the Depths. _

It’s a luxury cruise ship of a kind. Daryl doesn’t know much about it, only that it’s been heading towards Virginia Beach as one of its stops, which everyone’s been excited about because luxury cruises always mean rich tourists coming around. There are already tours planned around the clock at the Institute, new uniforms bought for the visitor-wrangling staff, a few additional people hired at the cafeteria; the big hope is that the influx of visitors to the city will also bring a much-needed increase of income to the Institute. 

There’s also apparently going to be a concert on board of the ship that anyone could attend, if they want to and can afford the ridiculously-priced tickets. Cheeky’s boyfriend managed to scope two tickets and Tina is insanely envious of the fact, as far as Daryl can understand from their exchange. 

“I wish my Roger loved me as much,” the waitress complains, “but I think he loves his money more,” she adds, sighing dramatically.

With a frown, Daryl thoroughly chews a piece of steak, swallows it down and then asks Rick, “D’ya wanna go to a fancy-ass concert with me?”

Rick blinks, surprised, and finishes the french-fry he’s been nibbling on. “Uh, sure, if you want to go? I didn’t know you were into such things.”

“Ain’t,” Daryl replies, “but I hear it’s like, a status thingy? Girls want to be taken there an’ shit.”

“Ah,” Rick says, and chuckles. “In that case, nope, I don’t want to go. I don’t care about big fancy events, darlin’. I just want to spend time with you.”

So reassured, Daryl nods. There’s no trace of deceit in Rick’s scent, and his face looks completely open and honest. Means he really doesn’t care about some concert on an overrated boat. Good, because Daryl had no idea whatsoever how to go about securing the tickets. Plus he’s not sure he could even afford them. The girls did make it sound like a real pricy affair.

“Bet the music woulda sucked anyways,” he mutters and returns to his food, smiling while chewing when he feels Rick’s foot nudge his ankle.

“You know what’s a better idea?” Rick asks. Daryl looks up at him, and his mate offers him a small, somewhat shy smile. “I’d like you to meet my mom, once I’m done with the divorce stuff in Atlanta. Would you like that?”

Daryl stares at him wordlessly for a moment. He’s watched his fair share of romantic comedies; he knows the significance of meeting a lover’s parents. He never actually expected to be introduced to Rick’s family, though; well, besides Carl who already knows him and approves of the relationship. Rick’s mother, that’s a completely different thing. More terrifying, to be honest. Less essential than being accepted by Rick’s own pup, but still important, because this is about a woman who gave birth to Rick. For humans, it’s a sacred sort of bond, isn’t it? And Daryl knows Rick loves his mother very much.

Maybe as much as Daryl loved his mama.

“If… if yer sure ya want that,” he murmurs after a moment’s hesitation. “I’d be honored to meet yer mama.”

The smile Rick gives him in return is the most precious thing Daryl’s ever seen. All thoughts about luxury cruise boats and stupid-ass concerts fly straight out into the ocean and drown in the face of Rick’s happiness. 

“She’s going to love you,” Rick promises, and Daryl isn’t so sure about it, but Rick seems sure, so Daryl believes him.


	29. Chapter 29

Rick leaves for Atlanta on Wednesday and Daryl almost doesn’t notice he’s gone… for the first two hours, at least, because he’s still asleep when his mate’s taxi arrives to take him to the airport. He wakes up all alone in Rick’s big, comfy bed, with the giant toy shark in his arms instead of his mate, and he yawns. He buries his head in Rick’s pillow, delighting in the leftover scent, and that’s when it hits him:

Rick is gone. 

Daryl has to bite his lower lip to stop an anguished whimper from coming out. _ ‘s just for a week. Maybe two, _he reminds himself, but it doesn’t seem to help. Something deep inside of him, something that seems to be located at the base of his spine, feels all wrong. Weird. Unbalanced. Like a fish out of water, Daryl almost can’t breathe, but at the same time, he knows it’s not real. His body is fine, it’s his mind that’s becoming all twisted as it attempts to wrap itself around this new reality where his mate is not by his side.

Does Rick feel it, too? Does he miss Daryl already?

Groaning, Daryl sits up in the bed and reaches to the bedside table where his phone is. There’s the blinking light of a notification, and as he unlocks it, he finds six missed calls and seventeen messages waiting for him. All of them from Rick. So now he has his answer.

Almost right after he left, Rick wrote: _ Are you up, darling? _

Then, when Daryl didn’t reply, _ Bet you’re still asleep. You look so adorable when you’re asleep. I took a picture before I left. _

And, _ I miss you. _

A few other messages, all about how Rick misses him and what he’s doing at the moment. A break of about half an hour when his plane must’ve been taking off - can’t have the phone turned on during take-off, apparently - and after that, more texts about how he hates being so far from Daryl. 

_ I’ve half a mind to catch the first return flight I see when I get to Atlanta, _is the most recent text, and Daryl feels warmth spreading inside his chest cavity. He enjoys the thought of Rick missing him so much he’s considering something so unreasonable. Which, as he thinks of it, is fucked up. He’s supposed to support his mate and want the best for him, always, right? And if Rick can’t go to Atlanta and deal with his business, then it won’t be for the best. If nothing else, there’s the fact that he won’t be able to actually marry Daryl if he doesn’t finalize his divorce. So they need to be separated for these few days. They really need to.

But, fuck, Daryl wants him back _ now. _

He presses the _ call _button before he’s fully aware what he’s doing. Rick picks up on the first signal, and he sounds breathy and incredibly relieved when instead of a greeting, he says Daryl’s name like it’s a prayer.

“I miss you so much,” he says. The sound of his voice makes something in the back of Daryl’s mind tingle with pleasure. 

“This was such a bad idea,” Rick mutters, and Daryl can’t help but agree with him. 

But instead of saying just that, he tells him, “Love you.”

Rick chuckles, but there’s more wonder than amusement in the sound. “Oh, darling, I love you too. So much that I can’t seem to breathe right without you.”

“Mmmm,” Daryl hums. The information that Rick is suffering the same as him makes him both very content and rather upset. “Same. World ain’t right, y’know? When you’s away, ‘s like I’m gonna suffocate ‘cause air ain’t processin’ right in my lungs. It sucks, though. We gotta do some shit apart, don’t we? ‘specially you.”

“It’s better when I hear your voice,” Rick informs him, and he sounds calming. Reassuring. Like he can sense Daryl’s discomfort with their situation even from miles apart. “How about we call each other every hour or so? Until this uneasiness passes. I’m sure it won’t last the whole time I’m in Atlanta.”

He says he’s sure, but he doesn’t sound so certain. Daryl can’t blame him: Rick’s operating on the same facts everyone else is, and when it comes to Daryl, there really isn’t all that much information to base any assumptions off of. Maybe Eric would be able to help, but Eric is a busy man and shouldn’t have to always worry about Daryl’s business anyway. So they’re on their own here, with nothing to go by but their own experiences. 

Because, try as he might, Daryl can’t remember a single day when his parents weren’t together until his mama died. 

“I can get on a plane an’ join ya there,” Daryl offers. He hates planes, but he hates that Rick is suffering the same as him when they’re apart. It’s not fair. He would be perfectly fine if it was only him that was hurting, but he can’t accept that something bad is happening to Rick because of him. 

“Darlin’, no,” Rick says, gently but firmly. “We’re going to be fine. It’s a few days, I can wrap things up in less than a week I bet. There’s no need for you to do something you’re not comfortable with. Okay?”

“Ain’t comfortable with this,” Daryl mutters unhappily.

“I know, sweetheart,” Rick says, and exhales loudly in a sigh. “Me too. The thought that you’re feeling the same as me… maybe even worse? It’s unbearable.”

“I ain’t so bad,” Daryl supplies immediately. It’s a lie, of course. He is feeling really, really fucking bad. It’s like the blood in his veins is boiling and all of his airways are constricting, like he’s being choked - and yet he knows it’s only in his mind. Physically, he’s sure if Eric did some of his science-y tests on him, the results would be normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

It’s all his brain trying to fry itself over the absence of Rick. 

“Gonna, like, read yer book for a while. Liked the first one better, though,” he says. It’s a ham-fisted attempt at a change of topic, he knows, but he hopes it’ll make Rick stop worrying about him. They’re both suffering from this separation, yes, but maybe if they distract themselves from it, it’ll become easier to take. And the truth is, he really wants to finish Rick’s second book. It’s not bad, as far as books go, lots of action, some sneak-peaks into Rick’s actual mind are there too between all the macho stuff. Obviously Daryl can’t understand why this one is more successful than _ This Sorrowful Life, _but, well, he’s not an expert in literature. Maybe shallower is better.

Rick chuckles. “Yes, me too,” he says, reminding Daryl of how he said exactly that back when they were only getting to know each other. Was that only three weeks ago? Daryl feels like he’s been Rick’s forever.

“You know, I left the PC in my office,” his mate adds helpfully. “There are some short stories I’ve been writing over the last couple of years on it. I’ve been thinking of maybe selecting a few for an anthology. If you want, you can read them. Tell me what you like.”

“Really?” Daryl asks, and excitement bubbles up within him like he was just offered a damn steak feast. “I can read yer unpublished stuff?”

“Yes, love, you can,” Rick replies, and he sounds happy to hear how delighted Daryl is about it. “Just don’t criticize too harshly, okay? They haven’t been proofread or edited yet.”

That definitely doesn’t make Daryl any less eager. “So… they’s only yers, right? Pure Rick Grimes, no nobody sayin’ to change shit or nothin’?” 

“That’s right,” Rick replies. “All mistakes and bullshit you find there are mine. You’ll be able to see what a terrible writer I really am.”

“Ain’t,” Daryl protests vehemently. “Can’t be, ‘cause I don’t normally read for shit and I read yer stuff a lot. Means ya must be good, right?”

“Yes,” Rick agrees softly. “If you say so, then it must mean I’m good. You’re my favorite literary critic, you know that?”

“Only one kissin’ ya on regular basis, so I sure hope I’m yer favorite,” Daryl announces, grinning. He wishes he could see Rick’s answering smile. He’ll have to ask Jesus to set him up with equipment for a video conference. He doesn’t think his old phone has such a feature. 

“Oh, I’ll be kissing you a lot when I’m back,” Rick promises. “I can’t really tell you all about it right now because the lady sitting next to me is giving me dirty looks…”

“Call me when yer alone, then,” Daryl suggests. “Gonna tell ya some ideas I have for you, too.”

Rick laughs, and Daryl feels a sense of peace flooding his insides for the time being. He listen to his mate laughing all the time. It’s his second favorite sound Rick ever makes, up there on the list right after the pretty noises the man makes when they do sexual things together. Perhaps he can get Rick to record some samples of his laughter, and send it to him via email or whatever it’s called. He could play it back when the separation becomes unbearable. Might prove a good alternative to talking on the phone all the time. 

Eventually Rick has to hang up because the plane is about to land soon. Before he turns off his phone, he promises to update Daryl with anything he’s going to be doing over the course of the day as soon as he’s able. Once this last connection between the two of them is cut off, Daryl feels as if he got punched in the stomach all of a sudden: he’s out of breath and he thinks he might throw up, which is a very new and very alarming feeling. He collapses into the bedsheets, breathing heavily, and groans softly at the lingering faint smell of Rick. It does little to help, but at least it’s something; after a few more moments, Daryl thinks he’s capable of moving. Struck with an idea, he gets up on wobbly legs and heads to the bathroom in hopes of finding something of Rick’s in there on the laundry pile. 

He’s in luck: apparently, doing any laundry wasn’t high on Rick’s to-do list before he left. There’s at least a week’s worth of sweaty, worn clothes and underwear in the pile, the majority of it Rick’s. The stale scent of sweat isn’t as amazing as when it’s fresh off Rick’s skin, but Daryl already feels much better when he buries his face in the pile and breathes in deeply. It might be weird to be doing this, he thinks he read somewhere that sniffing someone’s clothes isn’t really socially acceptable behavior, but fuck society and its stupid rules. They don’t apply when he’s literally dying without his mate by his side. 

He spends what seems like hours in the bathroom like that before his body returns to a state resembling balance. When he looks at the clock in the hall, however, he notes it’s only been some twenty minutes. Which is a good thing, because it would suck if he really needed hours in Rick’s dirty laundry pile to feel more or less normal. 

He’s got shit to do, after all. Stuff to read. 

But first, Daryl calls Aaron at the Institute, just to make sure he’s not needed for something or another. Only when Aaron assures him that yes, the other janitors know how to sweep the hallways and the other shark feeders know which sharks prefer their tuna still half-frozen, does he feel comfortable enough with the state affairs to stay at home another day. He heads upstairs, to the office-slash-library, and he settles down in the comfortable chair at the giant desk. 

It’s a good thing Rick taught him how to turn on the computer. A laptop is considerably easier to use than a PC, without any additional buttons and mouses - mice? - and keyboards, but fortunately, Rick thought a very basic working knowledge of computers would be a useful skill for Daryl to have. Maybe he always intended to let him read stuff on the computer. Daryl doesn’t imagine Rick is in the habit of printing everything out. 

He puts on his glasses, blinks a few times to adjust to them - ugh, but he really doesn’t like wearing them - and looks at Rick’s desktop in search of all the reading treasures he was promised. There’s a folder labelled _ Stuff+Things _and he looks into it first. Unfortunately, it’s full of photos - some of Carl when he was younger, others of various places in Virginia Beach, and many others of himself. He didn’t even know Rick took so many photos of him, but there they are, in full color, more or less blurry. One is a covert snapshot of when he was eating steak at Abe’s and the others had to have been taken here at Rick’s place. He’s asleep or relaxing with his head in Rick’s lap on most of them. Why would Rick feel the need to take photos of him and keep them on his PC, Daryl isn’t sure; it’s not like he’s very pretty or anything. He’s making a dumb face on the majority of the pictures. What’s the value in that?

But there are literally hundreds of snapshots like that, and Daryl isn’t going to question Rick especially when Rick isn’t there, so. Yeah. Not the folder he was looking for.

_ Stuffs _is another misfire, full of colorful advertisements for various rental places all over the East Coast, especially around Virginia Beach. Rick must’ve downloaded them when he was looking for a place to stay to write his new book. Daryl knows where most of these places are, and he thinks he likes the house Rick ended up renting the best. 

He clicks through more folders with similar names: _ Stuffsssss, _ then _ Stuffzzz, Thingies+Stuff, _ and even _ Stuffs1234asdfghjkl. _No text documents in any of them, but in the last one, Daryl finds a few pretty pictures of Great White sharks obviously taken by people who had the professional equipment for deep ocean photography. One of the sharks in pictures looks like she might be Lydia; the timestamp seems right and the filename suggests the photo was taken at the coast of Florida, so it can plausibly be her. There haven’t been that many female Great Whites around within the last year. It can either be Lydia or maybe Princess, but Princess has a distinctly different skin pattern, Daryl thinks. 

He makes a note in his phone to ask Jesus if he can match the timestamp to a specific shark’s tag. Not that it’s important, he just thinks it’s interesting that a random shark enthusiast somewhere out there took a photo that ended up in Rick’s computer, and that photo depicts the shark Rick actually had the opportunity to see in real life. Talk about a small world.

Finally, the seventeenth directory Daryl selects proves to be the treasure trove he was looking for. It’s called _ StuffyMcStuffs. _Inside, there are a few dozen folders, all of them neatly labelled with a number and what seems to be a title. Inside these folders are the text files, and Daryl grunts in triumph at finally finding Rick’s work. Who would’ve thought his mate was so messy? Really, he needs to introduce some kind of order into the computer. Even Daryl isn’t so messy, and he’s a damn shark. 

He clicks on the first file, called _ 01\. Alone, _ and begins to read. It’s a slow-paced story about an old fisherman whose only friend is a cat who comes to the harbor every day for some free food. The man always sets a fat fish aside for the cat, and as the animal eats, the fisherman tells it about his day. And then the cat stops coming, and the fisherman realizes it might never return, but he still sets a fish aside, just in case. The cat shows up a week later, missing half an ear and some fur. The fisherman is overjoyed. The story ends as the cat eats the offered fish and hangs out with the fisherman as always.

When he’s done reading, Daryl can’t decide if he loved or hated it. A bit of both, maybe. He’s glad the cat returned, but the relief from that seems so empty. It’s just a stray cat, it’s only around for the fish. It’s not a real friendship, but the fisherman acts like it’s enough. It makes Daryl sad. Was Rick sad when he wrote it? Was he lonely like the fisherman he wrote about? Somehow, the short story reminds Daryl of _ This Sorrowful Life. _The small-town cop, Rick’s literary alter-ego, was a lot like the old fisherman, but he found a friend who helped him through difficult times. Is the cat such a friend for the fisherman? Maybe Daryl is looking at it all wrong, maybe it’s not so tragic as he feels it is?...

His head hurts from thinking about it, honestly. If there’s one definite thing Rick’s writing is good at, it’s this: making him wonder. Rethink the stuff he’s read, look for parallels between the characters and their creator. He knows he wouldn’t be doing it if Rick wasn’t his mate. He wouldn’t care. But it’s like through Rick’s writing, Daryl gets to know the man on a deeper level than he ever can through normal interaction. Rick, he’s poured a lot of himself into his books and his short stories too, it seems, but it’s a part he doesn’t show in everyday life.

He should. Daryl loves the Rick he finds in what he reads. The sad, lonely man who can make the most out of even the strangest relationship, and find his happiness in mundane things. He wonders if that’s the person Rick used to be before meeting him: if their bond, the source of all of Daryl’s recently found happiness, is as precious to Rick as it is to him.

It’s difficult for Daryl to make himself read another story after _ Alone, _ but he knows that he really wants to. So he goes to the kitchen for some snacks - in all of the confusion of this morning, he forgot to have proper breakfast and he’s peckish now, - and he returns to the computer with a big plate of salmon sandwiches he sets on the desk next to the keyboard. He clicks on the second story, _ The Grove, _ and begins to read. Then another, _ Last Day on Earth, _ and after that, _ Knots Untie. _They’ve all got the same feel to them, the same underlying loneliness that makes Daryl want to call Rick and tell him he loves him over and over again just so that the man isn’t so sad. Especially the last one, which is a story about separation and the eventual loosening of a bond between two lovers who used to be so close it was almost like they were one person, before. It strikes so close to home, Daryl feels empty when he’s finished it. 

He doesn’t call Rick, but he sends him a text: _ all them short stories this sad? _

A reply comes soon afterwards: _ Can’t really talk now, sweetheart. Try the recent ones though, should be more to your liking. _

Daryl doesn’t explain that he doesn’t exactly _ dislike _the sad stories. They just make him feel hollow. Which is probably the way they’re intended to make him feel, anyway. Instead of wasting time explaining that, Daryl scrolls down the folder to find stories with higher numbers, and he clicks on the second to last one because he likes the title. 

It’s called _ The Shark Heart, _and according to the date at the top of the document, it was written sometime after he and Rick first met, but before they became a couple. The main character is a jaded reporter who comes to a seaside town in search of a good story. He finds it when a local fisherman goes missing during the storm, and the town becomes alive with rumors about a mythical creature killing good men who go out to the sea. They call it a siren, and they claim it’s always lived at the coast, waiting for opportunity to seize its prey. 

Daryl finds it sort of intriguing, a kind of horror-mystery thing, with some nice mythology added. He thinks he might enjoy the rest, even when the main character meets a local tour guide Norma and Rick goes into useless detail describing her _ pretty face _ and _ extraordinarily appealing body. _ He’s not jealous of a fictional character, not one bit; he just thinks it’s not necessary for the readers to know if Norma’s boobs are small and perky or whatever else they could be, to enjoy the plot. But whatever. Maybe that’s the way stories should be written. _ No Sanctuary, _Rick’s second published book, certainly was like that in some parts. 

Daryl decides to tell Rick he doesn’t like it, when they have the time to talk. For now, he skips the part about Norma’s physiology that doesn’t interest him in the slightest, and proceeds to the part where the second fisherman goes missing at sea. He still doesn’t know where the titular shark’s going to appear, but he figures it’s going to happen sooner or later. 

Only, when it does, it’s not what Daryl expected.

“What the fuck?” He says under his breath, staring wide-eyed at the text in front of him. But no matter how long he looks, it doesn’t change. Norma, the small-and-perky-boobed tour guide, apparently tends to have a mouth full of pointy serrated teeth, and is part-shark, and she’s been eating the damn fishermen all along. 

More to the point, she only is all that when she’s swimming in ocean water. And she communicates with sharks, as if the other stuff wasn’t enough.

Why would Rick write something like that? It’s so obvious now that the woman is based on Daryl, on what Daryl is. On something that was supposed to stay a more-or-less protected secret, for fuck’s sake. The teeth, the water thing, the communication with sharks, it all fits. Was Rick going to publish this? Was he only using Daryl to, like, gather more material for his writing? That’s not like the Rick Daryl knows, but… but the story is there, right in front of Daryl’s eyes, and it can’t be interpreted otherwise. 

Agitated, Daryl looks at his phone. He thinks for a second to call Rick, but the man’s busy with - something, fuck, what if that something is selling Daryl’s secret to that publisher of his, what if - no, it can’t be. He dials Rick’s number, but it doesn’t respond on the first ring, or the second, or the tenth. It goes to voicemail, and Daryl swears and throws the phone at the wall, damn useless thing.

He looks at the computer, then, and decides he can’t stay there. He needs to think, and he can’t think in here, cooped up in the house that smells like the man he’s been going crazy without, who might’ve been lying to him all this damn time. 

_ Explains why he got so curious about my genealogy and shit, _he thinks bitterly. He doesn’t go out by the front door, he doesn’t want to go into the city or talk to anyone, and he definitely doesn’t want to go back to the Institute where everyone is busy with science and research and everything else that’s dangerous, so dangerous, a threat, everyone is a threat-

He needs to swim. Fuck orcas, fuck everyone, he needs to swim.

The back of the house faces the ocean, and that’s where Daryl goes in long, unsteady strides. His heart is racing and he can’t breathe, and there are hundreds of thoughts tumbling in his head, confusing, hurtful thoughts, words, pretty words mixing with the abuse his daddy used to hurl at him every day for long years, and he’s done. He’s done with all that. He’s done with people, with friendships, with books, and with Rick. Fuck. Most of all, he’s done with Rick, and he’s not crying. He’s not.

He swims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, everyone hates me now. Does it help that this story was always going to head this way? I could've added a ton of cute chapters where Rick and Daryl cuddle and have sex and everything, but at some point, we would've arrived here anyway. 
> 
> Don't worry though. I'm a firm believer in happy endings... eventually.
> 
> By the way, all titles of Rick's books and stories are TWD episode titles, except for, obviously, The Shark Heart. That one's my own.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy bunny chasing, everyone <3

When Rick Grimes was twenty-two years old and a rookie at the Atlanta Police Department, he got shot in the line of duty. It was an accident. He knew it was an accident because the woman who shot him definitely didn’t intend to do it; she was scared, her hands were trembling, and she pulled the trigger without ever meaning to. 

Well, at least she didn’t mean to hit Rick, that’s for sure. Her piece of shit husband she called the police on, earlier that day? Probably. But she shot Rick instead, and what followed afterwards shaped much of his life into what it is right now.

Most notably, he was in a coma for three weeks, which was apparently enough time for his dearly beloved wife Lori to fall into bed with his best friend and partner on the force, Shane. Which Rick found out after coming home from the hospital. On his own. Lori didn’t even come to pick him up, too busy fucking Shane in the bedroom of the house Rick’s mother and grandparents bought for them.

Oh well. 

He eventually forgave her, mostly for the sake of the wonderful son they had together. Carl didn’t deserve to be the child of divorced parents, because none of this was his fault; it was unfair to put so much on him. So Rick took his own pride, squeezed it tight and put it away in the darkest corners of his mind where he tried never to look, and he convinced himself he moved on. Life went on, everything was - not fine, but close enough. Rick pretended he didn’t know Lori never stopped seeing Shane, Lori pretended she wasn’t disappointed Rick didn’t die from the gunshot wound, and Carl pretended he wasn’t bothered by the fact his parents hated each other.

The world didn’t make it any easier on Rick as time passed, though. He failed his physical evals at the APD and couldn’t go back to work in the same capacity as before, and he didn’t even rightly want to. They offered him a desk job which he also didn’t want, and so he found himself unemployed with a tiny disability pension guaranteed by his insurance. 

Needless to say, Lori wasn’t particularly happy about that, and the atmosphere at home worsened so much it drove Rick to his mama’s house in Delilah, King County. He needed to think. He needed to think very carefully about what he wanted to do with his life, now that he had to go about it anew. He started writing in that time, because it was sort of a relief. Every day, he typed short, bad stories on his dad’s old typewriter, and he discovered how much joy writing gave him - still gives him, most days.

But it’s not that joy Rick’s reminded of as he sits on an uncomfortable chair in Lori’s lawyer’s office, listening to the elderly woman drone on and on about Lori’s demands for the divorce. No, that joy is the furthest thing from his mind: instead, there’s a sharp pain in his chest, almost exactly where the scar remains from his gunshot wound from years ago, the hurt of it about just as intense as it was that time. He can hardly think, he can hardly even breathe right. Every time he inhales, he feels like his lungs are filling with liquid, and as he’s about to start choking, his mind catches up and sharply reminds him that  _ it’s not real. _

Real or not, it hurts like a bitch, and Rick knows why. Or, well, at least he thinks he knows. Things related to Daryl aren’t an exact science, so he can’t be sure, but it’s quite easy to assume it hurts more the longer he’s separated from his lover. The pain is sharper, more difficult to ignore than it was before, when they talked while he was on the plane and afterwards. It’s almost enough to make him groan out loud. 

After a particularly painful pang, Rick exhales and inhales too quickly, mentally counts to ten, and looks at his lawyer. 

“I need to leave,” he says, too loud maybe, interrupting the never-ending list of demands.

Lori’s lawyer just looks at him like she’s surprised anyone dared interrupt her. 

“You can’t leave,” Lori snaps, narrowing her eyes. “We were supposed to finally get an agreement, and I’m not letting you leave until you sign those papers. Today.”

Rick makes an impatient noise. “Lori, you know  _ fucking well  _ that you can’t expect me to give you anything beyond what I already agreed to. You can have the house and the cars, I don’t care. You can have the money, that’s all fine, I’ve got more than enough for both of us. But you can’t have a share in my potential future income, you can’t have the royalties from my books, and you sure as hell can’t have Carl all to yourself.”

“I’ll take it from here, Mr. Grimes,” says Rick’s lawyer, nodding so her mass of blond curls bounces attractively. Negan found her for Rick in LA, promised she’s great, and fuck if he wasn’t right. The woman’s name is Andrea Harrison, she’s younger than one would expect from a woman of her fame, and she actually reminds Rick of a shark in many ways: she sees an opportunity, she sinks her teeth into it and doesn’t let go until she gets what she wants. Daryl would be proud. 

Rick feels confident enough in her ability that he decides to leave everything to her. Worst case scenario, she asks for more money for her service. It’s not a problem. Rick really has more money than he knows what to do with, thanks to the amazing sales of  _ No Sanctuary,  _ and there’s that movie deal Negan says is on the horizon. 

A Hollywood movie based on his book! Who would’ve thought. Certainly not Rick, back when he sat in his mama’s basement and wrote out his campiest ideas on dad’s old typewriter. How the times have changed!

But Rick isn’t thinking about all that as he storms out of the office and frantically reaches for his phone. There’s a missed call from Daryl, and Rick feels his heartbeat pick up as he calls his lover back. All the time, he thinks how he shouldn’t have come here without Daryl. He should’ve insisted on doing all this shit through a video conference or something, or he should’ve at least taken Daryl along. They could’ve come by car, for heaven’s sake. The trip would’ve taken longer, but at least they would’ve been together.

Daryl doesn’t pick up, not on the first attempt, not on the second or third or tenth. Rick frowns; he tries to listen to the voicemail Daryl left him, but it’s just a breath or two and then nothing. It’s worrisome; Rick’s imagination runs wild, just as it always does when he’s upset, and he imagines about a thousand scenarios which led to Daryl not answering his calls after leaving that empty voicemail. He suddenly remembers with a chill, all the stuff about an orca hunting Daryl, and what if it caught up with Daryl while Rick was away?

Close to panicking, he quickly selects Eric’s number, glad that he had the foresight to put it in his phone’s memory. Eric, at least, picks up after a short moment, a surprised but friendly  _ hello  _ greeting Rick and somehow putting him enough at ease to collect his thoughts.

“Hi,” he replies with a greeting of his own. “Um, I’m in Atlanta right now and I was wondering… Is Daryl in the Institute maybe? Swimming?”

“I’m not sure,” Eric says, apologetic. “Huh, no, Aaron’s telling me Daryl hasn’t been around today. Is there a problem?”

“I can’t reach his phone,” Rick says, and he knows the anxiety he’s feeling seeps into the tone of his voice, but he can’t help it. There’s a hole in his chest, painful, making it hard to breathe, and even though he knows it’s not real, it changes nothing. It still feels very real. 

“I can have Paul go check up on him,” Eric offers.

“Yes, please do,” Rick all but begs. 

He hears Eric talking with someone in the background, short and to the point, and then Eric addresses him again: “He’s on his way. Rick, are you alright? You sound strained.”

“I have a bad feeling,” Rick says noncommittally. For some reason, he feels like maybe telling anyone about the separation pains might not be a good idea. Not yet, anyway. Not when he’s got more important things on his mind. “Call me once you know anything, okay? I’ll be trying to catch a flight home. I mean, to Virginia Beach.”

“Sure,” Eric replies. “Hang on there. I’m sure everything is fine. Daryl doesn’t usually pay a lot attention to his phone. Maybe he just went out to get some food and left it on the table.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Rick mutters, but he doesn’t believe a word of it. “Call me,” he repeats, and hangs up after Eric promises he will. 

Next, he calls Negan. He hates to ask another favor of his agent, but it seems like the easiest way to get back home from Atlanta as soon as possible. He taps the side of the phone impatiently as he waits for the man to pick up. It’s typical Negan; he only really answers his phone when he’s in the mood for it. Rick really, really counts on the guy’s good mood right now.

“Why hello there, boy wonder,” comes the jovial greeting once Negan finally answers. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Do you have a little chapter or three for me to read over?”

“No, that’s not it,” Rick says, “listen man, I’m sorry to be asking this, but would you be able to fly me from Atlanta to Virginia Beach? Like, as soon as possible? I know this is a lot, and I really wouldn’t be asking if I had a better alternative-”

“Ah, well, damn,” Negan replies. “I’m sorry, Rick, I really am, but no can do. It’s not that I don’t wanna help, you know I’d literally move mountains for you, dude, but you’re catching me at a very busy time. I’m like, on the other side of the States right now. It’s actually three in the morning here. Earliest I can be there is probably sometime on Friday. Can you wait?”

Rick bites on his lip to stop himself from actually screaming in frustration. No, for fuck’s sake, he can’t wait until Friday! If he could, he wouldn’t be asking his agent to lend him a private jet, for God’s sake. 

He shakes his head and grits out, “Thanks anyway,” before hanging up, ignoring Negan’s half-hearted apologies on the other side of the line. 

He catches a taxi to the airport. He hasn’t got much hope, but it turns out there is some good left in the world: there’s a flight to Norfolk in just about an hour, and there’s a miraculous last minute booking on that flight. It’s economy, but whatever, Rick isn’t picky. He just wants to get back to Daryl as soon as he can.

He’s never leaving Daryl again. For nothing. There isn’t anything in the world more important than Daryl, not a single thing, and Rick has to be with him forever. No matter what. 

The flight back to Norfolk seems much longer than it was the other way around, and instead of decreasing with the distance, the hollow pain in Rick’s chest only increases in intensity the closer he is to home. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but there’s an underlying sense of  _ wrong, wrong, wrong  _ to everything. Like the whole world is spinning out of orbit and Rick can’t do a single thing to stop it from launching itself into the sun. Burning. The pain is burning. Not constantly, but there are flashes like flames, spreading in sudden pangs all over his body. It’s different from when they were just separated, Daryl and him.

Rick knows something bad happened to Daryl. He knows it like he knows his own name.

His phone vibrates with a text message as soon as he turns it on after departing the plane at the Norfolk airport. Hope wells up for a second -  _ maybe it’s Daryl -  _ only for disappointment to set heavy in his heart when the text turns out to be from Eric.

_ Can’t find him. Call me when you can. _

Rick takes a taxi from the airport back to Virginia Beach, and even as he’s getting inside the car he already has Eric on the line. 

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes tops,” he promises before he recites the address to the driver.

“Did you hijack a plane or something?” Eric asks. He seems to be serious, like he completely expected Rick to do something very crazy. Rick supposes it makes sense. He expected himself to do something crazy, too. Luckily, he didn’t have to. 

“Got lucky,” he says simply. “Did you guys look at his place?”

“Well, he wasn’t seen at the Institute at all today,” Eric replies.

“No, I mean the cove? The beach shack he built? That place,” Rick clarifies. He thanks whatever deities might be listening that there doesn’t seem to be much traffic on the road. He’s pretty sure he’d go crazy if he was stuck in a jam right now.

“I don’t know about any shack,” Eric says. “I’ll ask Carol. She’s worried too.”

“He’s there,” Rick says with a conviction he doesn’t really feel. “Keep me updated, okay? I’ll just check the house, see if he left a note. Probably not, but maybe. Then I’ll join you at the Institute and we’ll decide what to do then. Yes?”

“Yes, good plan,” Eric replies. “We’re waiting. Good luck.”

Rick isn’t sure how much luck he’s got left after he caught a flight so easily, but he tries not to think about it too hard. Negativity will get him nowhere. It’s so hard to keep dark thoughts at bay, though, especially with his chest all but throbbing with pain. He can barely breathe, and he’s reminded of the moments just after he was shot, before he lost consciousness. There is a red haze at the edges of his vision just like back then, and Rick wonders if he’s dying. He was dying that time, and it felt almost the same like this, only now is much worse. Because Daryl might be in danger, and Rick’s not with him, and it’s Rick’s fault if something bad happened. It’s Rick’s fault because he left.

He pays the driver - gives him the only bill he’s got in his wallet, a hundred because he’s got no time to go to an ATM, and tells him to keep the change - and he basically runs to his rental house, skipping steps on the way. The door isn’t locked, same as Rick left it this morning. Had Daryl left on an errand or something like that, he would’ve locked it. Frowning, Rick walks inside and begins a search for Daryl or any clues as to his whereabouts. 

He starts in the bedroom - empty - and then remembers the last place he knows Daryl was: the office, where Daryl was reading all the old stuff on Rick’s computer. There’s a plate with a few leftover sandwiches on top of the desk there, and the PC is still on, displaying the screensaver - a slideshow of photos Rick took, of Carl, some nice places they went together, and of Daryl. 

Rick moves the mouse, hoping to find any sort of a timestamp that would point to the exact moment Daryl left the house; there’s nothing like that, but Rick is instead faced with the text on the screen, and his blood runs cold.

_ The Shark Heart.  _ Fuck. He completely forgot it was still there.

He started that story on the night he first arrived in Virginia Beach. There was a storm, all lights went out, so Rick lit up some candles, set up the old typewriter and started typing. The first draft wasn’t even much of a monster story, that came a bit later, after that tour at the Alexandria Institute. Rick was fascinated with the incredibly sensual tour guide and the way he seemed to be communicating with the sharks at the Biter Tank, and so he came up with that Norma character. He added the teeth and the shapeshifting for fun. People don’t have shark teeth in real life, he thought, and there was no way the pretty tour guide would ever connect the dots anyway. Rick planned to maybe tell him about the story later on, if they worked out. They would’ve both had a good laugh out of it.

And then Rick found out some people  _ do  _ actually have shark teeth, and he became too engrossed in his completely new, completely wonderful relationship with Daryl Dixon to even remember he ever wrote some dumb horror piece about a man-eating woman shark. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. Apparently, Daryl found the story and, since he left in the middle of it - without even finishing his food - he must’ve really hated it. No wonder. It didn’t paint shark people in too nice a light. 

Running his hand nervously through his hair, Rick curses under his breath again. The not-wound in his chest pulsates painfully in a sudden pang so strong he doubles over, gasping for air. He groans, squeezes his eyes shut, counts to ten and exhales slowly, and the pain lessens enough for him to be able to move again. For something not real, it sure feels real enough. 

Rick straightens and looks around the large room, hoping to find any hint as to what Daryl did after the story made him angry. His eyes are immediately drawn to what remains of a phone on the ground by the wall. Its screen is terribly cracked and the casing is broken, but Rick recognizes it as Daryl’s. It would be hard not to: Daryl is possibly the only person Rick’s ever met who doesn’t use a smartphone. Honestly, Rick didn’t even know it was an option nowadays. Daryl is special in many ways.

And he’s missing.

Rick picks up the phone, examines it, but there’s nothing to it. Just a broken phone. He puts it on the desk and makes a round over the entire house, looking for missing clothes, broken stuff, anything that might point to Daryl’s state of mind and where it might’ve led him. The thing is, nothing seems out of place. 

Deciding not to hide his own blame from the other people looking for Daryl, he sends a message to Eric:

_ He was angry with me. I did something stupid, will explain later. _

Soon afterwards, his phone vibrates with a return text from Eric.  _ He always goes swimming when he’s distraught. Don’t you have a private pier? Check there. _

How did he not think about it himself sooner? Shaking his head in disbelief, Rick runs downstairs. He probably didn’t consider the possibility Daryl went swimming because of that orca business. Didn’t Daryl say he doesn’t swim anymore? But if he was really upset with Rick, if he thought Rick wrote that story to mock him or something like that, he could’ve forgotten about the orca threat. 

Cold dread fills Rick’s heart. What if his dumb story cost Daryl his life?... No. No, Daryl’s not dead. Rick refuses to believe that. He would know. Or he wouldn’t know, because he’d be dead, too. He’s sure of that. Whatever it is, that bond that connects them, it would kill him if Daryl died. So Daryl’s still alive. For now.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _ Rick curses inwardly as he opens the back door and heads to the pier. He immediately notices a pile of gray fabric on the ground: Daryl’s sweatpants he walks around the house in to save Rick from seeing him naked all the time which definitely wouldn’t be good for his mental health. Daryl’s glasses are there too, on top of the sweatpants. He undressed here, and that means he did go swimming. 

Rick almost doesn’t notice Daryl’s shark-tooth necklace where it’s been thrown haphazardly on the grass. When he does, he picks it up and inhales shakily. Daryl loved-  _ loves _ this necklace. Why would he leave it behind?...

“Where are you,” Rick whispers, looking down into the waves. The water is deep beneath the pier, scary deep, and Rick has to take a step back as his mind supplies images of enormous jaws under the surface. It’s not a shark he imagines, however; it’s a killer whale, and he shivers, forcing himself to push the images away. 

He calls Eric. “He went swimming,” he says in lieu of a hello, because they already wasted enough time, he thinks. 

“Damn,” Eric replies. “I’ll talk to Professor King about taking the motorboat. Can you meet me here? I think you need to come along if we want to find Daryl. Before something bad happens.”

“The orca,” Rick guesses. 

Eric hums. “Yes, maybe,” he replies. “So hurry. We don’t have much time.”

Rick agrees. He fastens the shark tooth necklace around his own neck, removes the tie and suit jacket he’s been sweating in this whole time, and he’s on his way to help find his lover so that he can properly apologize for being an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized in the previous chapter I made Rick talk to Daryl on the phone while he was on the plane. To my defense, I only flew on a plane twice in my life, so it's easy to forget that you're not really allowed to do that. Let's just imagine it's allowed in business class Rick flew to Atlanta on, okay? At least in this universe, it is. I mean, it's not much less realistic than people who are also sharks, yes?  
*dumb mistake is dumb*


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who posted a new chapter only two days after the last one :D

On board the speeding motorboat, Rick is instantly reminded of the  _ you’re gonna need a bigger boat _ scene in  _ Jaws  _ which fuelled his nightmares for months after the movie first came out. There are sun rays dancing on the surface of the ocean, but the water below is dark and impenetrable to the human eye; Rick’s imagination easily comes up with what could be lurking just beneath the small boat. He feels a bit like he’s in one of those horror movie posters with a tiny tiny boat on top of the waves and a giant monstrous predator just below, jaws wide open to swallow the boat whole, unsuspecting passengers and all. 

His personal monster comes in black and white, though, a mammal and not a fish. He’s stuck on a tiny boat staring into the waves like Captain Ahab going against the legendary Moby Dick, only his Moby Dick is supposedly a human-shaped killer whale who hunts sharks for sports. Or something.

Rick really, really wishes he at least knew how to swim.

“I don’t see anything,” Carol Peletier calls above the roaring sound of the engine as it fights against the waves. She’s disgruntled, but determined. Rick knows of her history with Daryl and it eases his nerves a little to know this woman will sooner hurt somebody than give up on finding her best friend. 

They’re on the same page on this, even if Carol is currently very pissed off at him.

Deservedly so. Rick told Carol and Eric all about the stupid old story, about how he wrote it before he found out but forgot to delete it, and Carol called him so many colorful expletives Rick regretted he didn’t have a notebook to write them all down for future reference. She’s still not talking to him, but that’s fine. She doesn’t need to like him right now. There are more important things to concentrate on:

Finding Daryl.

“I don’t know much about orcas, but how do you suppose it would go about attacking a shark?” Rick asks, trying to be audible above the noise. His chest pains have subsided for the moment, dulled to a bearable level of throbbing. He thinks it might be because he’s wearing Daryl’s necklace. It’s a dumb thought; there’s no science that would support such a theory, but Rick doesn’t really believe any science could ever explain Daryl and the influence his absence is having over Rick. What he knows for sure is that he hasn’t had an attack - or whatever he should call those crippling pangs of pain spilling from his chest to every nerve ending in his body - he hasn’t had one since he put on Daryl’s necklace. Like some part of him that craves Daryl’s closeness was comforted by the idea of having something of his. 

It’s probably not going to help for much longer, but Rick is grateful for the relative clarity of mind for the time being.

“Well they don’t drag their victims off anywhere if that’s what you’re thinking,” Carol snaps, shaking her head. “They attack in a very precise manner, from what I gathered. They target livers and stomachs. The oily parts. Take large chunks out in single bites, then they leave the victim to die. They don’t have any interest in the meat or other organs.”

“Fuck,” Rick mutters.

Eric groans impatiently. “Let’s just stop all that with the orcas, why don’t we? We don’t know that that’s what happened to Daryl,” he says. He sounds hostile, but Rick can understand why: if they assume Daryl was indeed attacked by a killer whale, then… they don’t have much hope of finding him alive, do they?

_ He’s alive,  _ Rick reminds himself firmly.  _ He’s alive, and he’s gonna kick my butt for that story, but that’s fine because he’s safe and alive, and that’s it. _

“You’re right,” Carol agrees, and returns her attention to searching the water.

They waste a few more precious hours on the motorboat, but they find nothing. Rick wonders if there even was a point to this, if a tiny boat like that could’ve ever helped anyone find a single person in the vast ocean. It seems a lot like looking for a needle in a very large haystack. Hopeless. 

Rick can’t afford to lose hope.

“This is useless,” Eric decides finally, and that’s that.

They return to the Institute. They regroup in one of the empty lab rooms or whatever it is, and Eric lays down another plan to search for Daryl.

“We had a theory that governor Blake was after him,” he says. “I’m not saying it’s definitely true, but it’s a lead.”

“Dude was suspicious,” says Paul, the long-haired guy Daryl calls Jesus. 

Carol shakes her head, frowning. “Why am I only hearing of this now?” She asks in a tight voice. “Damn you men. Alright. I’ll go find that governor guy. He’s supposed to be in DC for his campaign?”

“Me and Aaron can go to his house in Atlanta in case he’s back there,” Paul offers.

Aaron, Daryl’s boss who’s supposedly engaged - or about to be engaged? - to Eric, nods in approval. “I know some good shortcuts. If we take the bikes, we can be there in six, seven hours.”

“If I have to scrape you boys off the roads, I’ll be very mad,” Eric informs him, but it sounds enough like a blessing that the two men take it as such and leave.

Carol looks at Rick. “You’re coming with me. I’ll need someone to keep me from punching people, and you look like you’re good at taking punches instead.”

Rick blinks, but decides to go along with it. He’s reasonably sure Carol won’t actually resort to punching him… too much.

“I’ll take the boat out again, see if I can find anything,” Eric says. “You two be careful. Blake may be dangerous.”

“I’m definitely dangerous,” Carol assures him firmly. “Come on, Grimes. We have ourselves a politician to punch.”

The drive to DC is  _ supposed to  _ take approximately four hours, but with Carol Peletier behind the wheel, it takes much less. It’s a miracle they don’t get pulled over by the police on the way, and it’s a double miracle that the car doesn’t end up in a ditch somewhere when Carol takes a turn at full speed. She’s not dangerous, she’s downright crazy, and Rick’s wondering if this is not some kind of vengeance she’s exacting on him. He also wonders if this is what flying on a plane was like for Daryl, which makes him feel even worse about the whole situation. 

Somehow, they survive the ride, but it turns out getting to DC was actually the easy part.

“How do we approach him?” Rick asks as Carol pulls into the parking lot in front of a hotel he’s not familiar with. 

“I distract his bodyguards, you get him to talk,” Carol replies swiftly, like she’s reciting a shopping list and not planning something much more dangerous than Rick thought he signed up for. 

She continues, “While you were whimpering and praying for your life, I had my Zeke call Blake’s press secretary. You know, Zeke has the kind of authority to request meetings with politicians. So he called, and he texted me back. He has it on good authority that Blake is here in DC. In this here hotel to be exact. He’s renting out a penthouse suite here every time he’s in the area. The bastard likes to live luxuriously off our taxes.”

“Okay,” Rick says. “Can’t we get an appointment or something? You know, so that we don’t get arrested on sight?”

“Nobody’s got time for that,” Carol replies, and the glare she gives him is filled with contempt. “Grow a pair, Grimes. This is all your fault, so you better start doing your part to make it right.”

Rick sighs, but doesn’t protest because Carol is right. So instead of raising any more objections, he licks his lips, counts to ten, and runs his fingers over the shark teeth on Daryl’s necklace. He can do this. He watched Daryl wrestle a Goddamn murderous shark for him; he sure as hell can browbeat a politician for his lover’s sake. 

How hard can it be to break into a penthouse suite, anyway?

Turns out, it’s pretty damn hard. Honestly, Carol Peletier must be some kind of an action hero crossed with a ninja, because she manages to sneak her way past two bodyguards stationed in the hallway like a pro, and she takes out the third using a coat hanger. Unfortunately, that last bodyguard is a heavy-set man and his fall draws the attention of the others, who look at the tiny woman with a coat hanger standing above their fallen colleague in unison. Their expressions show the same sort of disbelief Rick is pretty sure is visible on his face, but they are professionally trained to deal with all kinds of strange threats to their ward, and so they both lunge for Carol. Who throws the coat hanger at them and runs towards the stairway, past the broom closet Rick is hiding inside of. 

So, yeah, the bodyguards are distracted alright. There’s no way Carol’s getting out of this without getting arrested.

Taking the opportunity given to him, Rick crosses the empty hallway and knocks on the door marked with a  _ Don’t Disturb  _ sign. He can’t help but squint suspiciously at the sign. Is it possible Daryl is being kept right behind this door, bound and helpless as the governor is preparing to eat his liver?

“Yes?” Calls a voice from inside the suite. It sounds both slightly curious and a lot annoyed.

“Room service,” Rick says quickly. It comes out weirdly high-pitched, so he exhales and gives himself a stern talking to:  _ I’m not nervous and I’m not scared. I just have to think about it as a writing exercise. What would my characters do? _

The answer is, his characters probably wouldn’t end up in this situation in the first place, but that’s a digression Rick doesn’t have the time to ponder on right now. There is a sound of footsteps inside the room and then the door opens, revealing a man in his thirties, quite handsome if a bit mean-looking, dressed in a wine red gown on top of normal clothes. It reminds Rick of English gentlemen. Like Hercules Poirot. Who wasn’t supposed to be English, but whatever. 

“I didn’t order any room service,” the man says, then frowns when his mind catches up to the sight of Rick who definitely doesn’t look an ounce like hotel staff. 

“What?” The man yelps, and Rick pounces on him.

He succeeds in pushing the man back into the room, and he immediately closes and locks the door behind himself before turning to face the governor. He keeps one hand behind his back, making it look like he’s got a gun there he’s trying to conceal. He saw a thug do that on one of the instructional videos back at the Academy. It wouldn’t work on a cop, obviously, but governor Blake is no cop.

He doesn’t even move an inch as he watches Rick carefully. “What is this?” He asks.

Rick takes a quick sweep of the suite, but from where he is by the door, he can’t see much of what’s inside. He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and then looks the governor straight in the face.

“Where is Daryl?” He questions in his sternest voice. He’s a bit proud of how grave it comes out. Almost not shaky at all. He’s got this. 

“Daryl? I don’t know a Daryl,” Blake replies, surprised. “No, wait. There was a Daryl… the tour guide at the Alexandria Institute? In Virginia Beach? That the guy you mean?”

“Yes!” Rick snaps. 

“Listen, you must be confused,” the governor says, lifting his hands in front of himself in a defensive gesture. “I haven’t seen Daryl since my visit at the Institute. I swear. We didn’t even talk much. I don’t know where you got the idea he’d be here-”

“I know what you are,” Rick accuses darkly. “So you had better stopped lying.”

“What… what I am?” Blake repeats, blinking like he’s trying to process the words. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he says finally. “Tell me, what exactly do you think I am?”

Now Rick is confused, but he’s not willing to let the man know that. “You know very well what I’m talking about,” he says. “Daryl told me all about it.”

The governor scoffs. “Your friend Daryl is full of shit,” he announces. “Did he tell you I’m like him? If he did, I’ve got news for you, man.”

“Stop lying!” Rick demands, narrowing his eyes. “You attacked him, didn’t you? What are you planning to do with him? And where is he?”

“I don’t know where he is!” Blake insists. “Jesus, man, what is this about? Are you that jealous boyfriend he told me he had? What, did he break up with you? Good riddance if he did, you’re a psycho from what I can tell-”

“He didn’t break up with me, he’s missing and you damn well know it!” Rick hisses.

The governor frowns at that. He takes a step back, looks away from Rick and bites his lip, like he’s considering something. Then he looks back up at Rick, and his eyes are serious as he says, “I don’t know where your Daryl is, but I might know something that can help you. Just don’t do anything stupid, alright? Put the gun down and let’s have a talk like civilized men.”

Rick can’t tell if the man is honest or not, but since this is a level of helpfulness he didn’t expect, he decides to go along with it. He puts both hands in front of himself, palms up. 

“No gun,” he confesses. “I had to make it look convincing.”

Blake stares at him incredulously before he exhales loudly. It sounds like a chuckle, or maybe like all air was punched out of him by a well-aimed blow. 

“You’ve got balls,” he says with obvious approval. “Okay, you know what? Come on inside. Let’s sit and talk.”

He leads Rick further inside the suite, to what looks like a lavish living room with a leather coach and a giant TV covering an entire wall. It’s on, and the display is paused on a still from one of the Shark Week programs on Discovery. 

“I like sharks,” the governor explains, shrugging noncommittally when Rick gives him a questioning look.

“Alright. Let me start by saying I am not what your friend Daryl is,” Blake says as he takes a seat on one end of the coach. Rick sits down on the other end and nods, hoping it’s enough to encourage the man to continue talking.

It is. “I met my wife, Aubrey, ten years ago when I went scuba diving in Australia. They had the most wonderful coral reefs, but human exploitation caused the majority of them to die off, did you know that? I was lucky to have seen them, but sadly, my daughter Penny will never be this lucky,” the governor says. 

He sighs and goes on. “Aubrey was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. She had this radiance to her, like nobody else. The moment I saw her, I knew she was the only one I would ever love, and I was the luckiest man in the world because she wanted me just as much. Only problem was, she had a mouthful of teeth which weren’t very human, but it didn’t deter me. We got married and nine months later, our daughter was born. When she was a little over a year old, it turned out she inherited her mother’s pretty smile, down to the last tooth.”

“Your daughter is a shark?” Rick asks, taken aback. Penny Blake is his son’s classmate; how come he never noticed anything strange about the little girl? 

Huh. He wasn’t ever looking, was he? Before Daryl, he never even considered people could be anything other than just people.

“She is,” the governor admits, and he sounds proud like it’s some sort of an accomplishment. “Unfortunately, Aubrey died soon after Penny was born. I never found out how. The authorities said it was a shark attack, but I find that hard to believe. Aubrey could communicate with sharks to a degree. I mean… She had an affinity for tiger sharks most of all, so I suppose a shark of another species could have done it?” He sighs, and Rick thinks he can see the man’s eyes well up a bit. He must have really loved his wife; something Rick can relate to, because the governor’s description of how he met Aubrey strikes a chord within him. It was the same for him after all, when he saw Daryl for the first time. 

“Having raised Penny on my own all this time, I’ve learned to recognize certain clues,” Blake continues. “I was relatively sure I knew what your Daryl was the instant I saw him, and he confirmed it later when I tried to talk to him in private. I have to admit, that wasn’t my best moment. The only thing I thought about was that he was the same as Aubrey, and I wanted him just because of that. For Penny as much as for me. I’m trying to do my best with her, but I wonder if it’s ever going to be enough…” 

He trails off for a moment, and Rick doesn’t push him even though he knows he rightly should because Carol might be in a lot of trouble right now. This is important though, what Blake is telling him is important, and Rick doesn’t want to accidentally ruin it by putting too much pressure on the man. 

Eventually, Blake shakes off whatever memories are distracting him and he looks at Rick again. “A few months ago, I was approached by a man. He was a strange-looking fellow. Short, slightly heavier, weird hair,” he shrugs. “He introduced himself as a Doctor Porter, and he told me he knew about my Penny. He said if I was ever in need of answers, he could help. Before I could ask what he meant, he was gone, but he left me a card. I still have it,” he indicates to the wallet on the coffee table. “I had a bad feeling about Doctor Porter and I had a private investigator look into him. She didn’t find anything solid, but there were some strange occurrences in some of the locations he was seen at.”

“How strange?” Rick asks. 

“People going missing,” Blake replies. “Not many of them. Two, or actually three. One girl about college age, a little boy, and an older man. The man reappeared some time later, spouting stories about secret laboratories, but he was a known drunk so nobody took him seriously.”

“You did,” Rick guesses, frowning.

Blake nods. “I did. I had the investigator talk to him, but he didn’t have much more to say than what he already told the authorities and whatever press wanted to listen. The important thing is, I’m quite certain he was one of the shark people. I can’t confirm it because sadly, he died about a week after he showed up following his alleged abduction. Liver failure.” 

“So, wait. Does this mean that this Doctor Porter is abducting people who might be sharks?” Rick asks, alarmed. 

“I hired additional security around Penny just in case,” Blake replies slowly. “Listen… I don’t even know who you are, but you seem to be quite determined to find your friend. I’ll give you Porter’s card. Just… don’t tell anybody what I just told you, alright? I don’t know what kind of influence he has. If anything happens to Penny…”

“You have my word,” Rick promises. 

Blake picks up the wallet, shuffles through the cards inside, then hands one of them to Rick. It’s completely unassuming: white and rectangular, with clean, simple font.  _ Doctor Eugene Hermann Porter,  _ it reads in larger letters, and below that,  _ Charleston Institute of Marine Biology.  _ There’s a phone number and an email address. It all seems completely normal, except for one small detail:

There is no Institute of Marine Biology in Charleston. 

Rick knows that from his research: the city was one of the places he considered when he was about to move to write his book, before he eventually settled on Virginia Beach because of the Alexandria Institute. There’s the College of Charleston which offers a course in marine biology, and then there’s the Charleston Marine Life Center, but no Institute. Which means the card is fake.

“I hope you find your friend,” Blake says, and for the first time Rick recognizes the sincerity in the man’s voice. It has been there all along, but with the haze of suspicion clouding Rick’s judgment, it took a while to realize it. 

After Blake writes down the names of the three people who went missing in the time Doctor Porter allegedly approached them, it’s time for Rick to leave. They part on amicable terms which is a wonder, seeing how their meeting wasn’t exactly model from the start. The bodyguards haven’t returned yet, possibly still in pursuit of Carol except for the one who’s out cold on the floor. Slightly worried, Rick check up on the man, but he is immediately set at peace when he hears the bodyguard let out a powerful snore. Not dead, then. Good. 

He takes the stairs down to the sixth floor and then switches to the elevator. It’s less suspicious this way because there’s an open bar on the sixth floor, so it’s completely normal for people who aren’t hotel guests to be coming from there. It’s how they got in so easily. With a sigh, Rick wonders how he’s going to get back to the Institute now that he’s got no idea where Carol is. She’s got the car keys. He supposes he can look up bus connections from here to Virginia Beach. If he’s lucky, he might not have to spend the night in DC.

“Took you long enough, loverboy,” Carol says, rolling her eyes. 

Rick blinks. Here she is, standing in the hotel lobby like she didn’t taunt two burly bodyguards just about half an hour earlier. It takes Rick a moment to notice how she’s dressed differently: where previously she was wearing a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans, the casual outfit got replaced by a skirt and a button-up shirt at some point. Her hair is longer, too, and it takes Rick another minute to realize she’s wearing a wig.

“Are you a spy or something like that?” He asks, impressed and terrified in equal measures.

Carol just looks at him and begins to walk back to the parking lot. “I hope you learned something from that bastard. Because I can’t help but notice Daryl isn’t with you.”

“Blake doesn’t know where Daryl is,” Rick supplies quickly. Before Carol can call bullshit on the whole story, he adds: “He’s not the orca. Daryl was wrong. He knows what Daryl is because his wife was a shark, too, and so is his daughter. And he gave me this,” he hands Carol the business card.

The woman glances at it and lifts an eyebrow. “Institute of Marine Biology in Charleston? There’s no such thing,” she says with conviction.

Rick nods. “I know. It’s something, right? A clue?”

Carol looks at him intently, and with what might be approval in her dark eyes. “It’s a clue alright,” she agrees. “You’re not completely useless after all, Grimes. Good for you. Get in the car and call Eric. We’ve got a suspect, and you’d better believe we’re going after his ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've crossed one suspect off our list, but a new suspect turned up! Who would've expected it?
> 
> Also, I'm in the middle of a writing spree. This part of the story is something I've been wanting to write for a long time now, so I guess that's why I'm two chapters ahead :D


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite half of this chapter because I hated it, but I think it's good now. Enjoy :)

The drive back to the Institute takes longer than the road to DC, or maybe it’s just an impression because Rick feels all of the day’s events finally catch up to him. He’s tired, and his chest hurts in that dull way that doesn’t bother him nearly as much as he feels it should. He flew to Atlanta and back today, he went on a couple-hours-long ride on a motorboat looking into the impenetrable ocean depths that will probably continue to scare him for the rest of his life, and he all but threatened a politician in the middle of his Congress election campaign, all within a day’s work. How he is even still awake is beyond him. It’s probably because of how worried he is about Daryl; even with this new clue, it doesn’t seem like they’re all that much closer to finding his lover.

At least the things Rick learned proved beneficial. 

“Eugene Porter? That guy is no doctor,” Eric scoffed when Rick told him about his findings over the phone. “He worked here at the Institute for a few weeks. That would be… six years ago? Or thereabouts? He was a janitor.” 

He hummed thoughtfully. “Aaron kicked him out after we found him sneaking into the locker rooms when the tank cleaners were changing. Believe me, that guy was one massive creep. He definitely wasn’t a scholar, even though he talked like a nerd.”

“Then what do you think this is?” Rick asked, but Eric didn’t have an answer.

They pulled over for a Drive Through at a McDonald’s. Carol got them both some of their foul coffee and a cheeseburger each, and Rick doesn’t like cheap cheeseburgers, but he doesn’t dare say anything lest Carol gets angry with him again. He nibbles at the bun without tasting a lot of it, staring out the window as the car speeds down the Interstate. It’s dark out, which is no wonder because it’s some time past midnight. Their luck run out at one point, and they wasted some precious time in the traffic jam just outside DC. The roads up there were swarming with cops afterwards, so Carol was unable to speed like a crazy woman for a long while. She’s got no problem doing it now, but Rick is too tired to even care. He trusts her not to drive off the road. 

Or something.

He nods off sometime after they pass Richmond. He doesn’t sleep long, but his dreams still manage to be filled with troubling stuff: underground laboratories, vivisections, and the almost familiar by now, killer whales with their jaws open wide. When he startles himself awake by letting out a particularly unhappy, loud whimper, Rick finds himself hoping all those nightmarish visions are just the products of his overactive imagination and not, somehow, images transferred from Daryl through their extraordinary bond. 

Is that even something they can do? Rick frowns. He regrets not having asked Blake about this. His wife was like Daryl, so he might know something useful about those bonds… things.

“We’re almost there,” Carol says. Her voice sounds very loud in the silence of the night. “I ate your burger. You almost dropped it. I didn’t want to have to make you clean the car.”

“It’s fine, I wasn’t very hungry anyway,” Rick replies. 

Carol doesn’t look away from the road, but Rick still feels like he’s being examined closely. The woman doesn’t say anything else, though, and Rick sighs, rubbing the leftover sleep from his eyes. The nap he took didn’t help with the exhaustion, but he doesn’t believe he’ll be getting any more sleep tonight. To be honest, he’s not likely to have a full night’s rest until Daryl is found. If he’s found.

No, of course he’s going to be found. Rick can’t afford to think otherwise.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Carol asks after a moment of silence. 

Rick looks at the dark landscapes passing them by. “Isn’t it?” He mutters, and it comes out bitter.

“No, it’s not,” the woman says firmly. “Now listen. Daryl is amazing and I love him dearly, but that doesn’t mean he has no flaws. Don’t interrupt me- I know you want to deny it, but Grimes, you don’t know him as well as I do. You’ve only seen him at his absolute best because that’s how he wants you to see him. With me, he lets his guard down because he knows he doesn’t need to impress me.”

“He doesn’t need to impress me neither,” Rick protests weakly.

Carol shakes her head. “He thinks he does,” she explains. “You’d think with his prancing around naked all the time, he must be a very confident man, but he’s no such thing. He’s always been very insecure, and he doesn’t trust easily. But most of all, he’s got a short fuse and he tends to overreact. I bet when he read that story, he didn’t even think to talk to anyone about it. He thought you wanted to expose him, I guess? It was like a worst fear coming true, and he didn’t stop to think how maybe it wasn’t what it seemed. He blew the whole thing out of proportion, made an impulsive decision even though he must have known it was a bad decision all along. So what I’m trying to say,” she sighs. “What I’m saying is, this is not all on you. You’re both equally dumb and I hope when we find Daryl, I will get to kick both of you in the nuts and then we’ll never do this again.”

It’s not a prospect Rick is particularly looking forward to, but he supposes he can take a kick in his privates if that means Daryl will be there with him to suffer the punishment together. 

The whole _ rescue team _ or whatever it is that they are, meet up back in Eric and Aaron’s private room at the Institute. Rick is distinctly aware that he doesn’t really fit in with these people, and not because they are scholars while he is very distinctly… not. Aaron, Eric and Paul are some of Daryl’s closest friends, Carol is like a sister, Professor King - the intimidating man whom Carol affectionately calls _ Zeke _\- has been Daryl’s boss for a long time. They have all known Daryl for a long time, and then there goes Rick, the random guy who only just met Daryl like, a month ago. 

And yet, they don’t seem to act like he’s the odd man out. Quite the opposite: Eric smiles at him, Professor King pats him on the back in a friendly, comforting manner, and Aaron offers him a cup of real coffee, and a large sub. The sandwich cold, but it still tastes great.

“At least some good came out of us going out on bikes,” Aaron explains. “Planning for emergencies is way easier on a full stomach.”

“Okay, let us lay down the facts. What do we know?” Asks Professor King in a no-nonsense tone of voice. There’s a whiteboard hanging on one of the walls, and he grabs a marker to note down any useful bit of information.

“Daryl went swimming around noon, more or less, we think,” Eric begins. “When was your last conversation with him, Rick?”

Rick frowns, thinking, and picks up his phone. He looks at the texts he sent. “Ten thirty, I messaged him about some stuff he could read. Then he called me six past twelve, but it went to voicemail because I was at a meeting. I assume he went swimming directly after that, from what the house looked like.”

Professor King puts the times and appropriate labels on the board. He has a nice, elegant script, much unlike Rick’s own chicken scratch. It must be convenient for taking notes, as a scholar. Rick always has to take notes on his phone, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to read them. It’s one of the reasons he even has a smartphone in the first place.

“I don’t know if it’s relevant, but, uhm. I’ve been having these chest pains all day,” he adds. He winces inwardly because he thinks it’s making it sound like a whiny brat, talking about his own hurts when they all have more important things to be worried about. Plus, the moment he spoke about the pain, he became aware of it again, and that’s not pleasant in the least. 

Eric looks at him sharply. “Elaborate,” he demands.

Rick shifts, feeling nervous for no reason, and he says: “It started when we separated in the morning. About the time I was at the airport, my chest started hurting. It lessened when Daryl and I talked on the phone. Then around noon, it became worse. That’s actually what prompted me to return early. I tried to contact him but he wouldn’t pick up, so I called you, and uh. Yeah. At times, the pain was so bad I couldn’t breathe.”

Eric narrows his eyes. “How is it now?”

“Better,” Rick mutters. “Ummm, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I think it got better after I picked this up,” he indicates to Daryl’s necklace.

Eric looks uneasy. “Professor, please note it down. Let’s go with separation anxiety for now. Though I have a theory...” He trails off without further explanation, seemingly lost in thought. Obviously, he’s got nothing more to say on the subject, so after Professor King puts down, _ separation anxiety - RG, _they move along.

“Okay, what else do we know?” Paul asks, looking at Rick and Carol because they’ve obtained the most information so far. 

“Governor Blake’s daughter is a shark,” says Carol, shrugging, “and he was approached by Eugene Porter some time in the last six months.”

Ezekiel writes down _ E. Porter _ on the board, then underlines it twice. “Before the two of you arrived, I remembered the strangest thing about that young man. He was very interested in Daryl, if I recall correctly. He referred to him, I believe, as a _ childhood friend, _but Mr. Dixon didn’t seem to recognize him.”

“That’s because Daryl didn’t have childhood friends. He grew up in isolation, with only his older brother and their dick of a father for company,” Carol explains. “So once again, we see how that Eugene character is a liar.”

“According to governor Blake, there were people who went missing from places Porter was snooping around,” Rick adds. “Blake believes they were shark people. I have a list of names, if that helps.”

He fishes it out of his pocket and passes it to Professor King. Aaron hands the man a magnet and the Professor pins the list to the board under a headline, _ Missing people. _Then he writes down Daryl’s name underneath, with a question mark. 

“In the morning, I’ll have Michonne look into Eugene Porter. If anyone can find a sleazy man like him, she will,” he announces.

Rick remembers Michonne Hawthorne being the Institute-employed lawyer who made him sign an NDA right after Daryl fought the shark in the diving tank. He doesn’t question Ezekiel’s conviction about her capabilities. She terrified the hell out of him. He would’ve signed the NDA even without her glaring at him like everything that happened was his fault.

The most frightening, however, was when afterwards, she smiled at him all bright and friendly, patted him on the cheek and called him adorable. Hell of a woman, that Michonne Hawthorne. Maybe even someone Rick would’ve gone for, in another life, if Daryl wasn’t in the picture.

But Daryl is very much in the picture, and that’s that.

“One of the people in this list, the old man, Geoff Finley, he died of liver failure soon after he reappeared,” Rick remembers all of a sudden. “I can’t help but wonder… If he was a shark, then his liver would’ve been a snack for an orca, wouldn’t it? Unless it was too destroyed by alcohol, and that’s why he was sent back. Or maybe the orca took a bite anyway and that’s why there was a liver failure?...”

“You think Eugene Porter is the orca?” Carol asks, humming. “It makes sense. It would explain how he knew those people were sharks, wouldn’t it?”

“He’s not an orca,” Aaron protests, shaking his head. “Frankly, I don’t think the orca has anything to do with any of this.”

“What? Since when?” Carol inquires, narrowing her eyes. “I thought that was our working theory all along? That Daryl was captured by a killer whale person?”

“Maybe it was yours, but that’s not it. I’m sure of it,” Aaron says. He tries to make himself sound careless, like he’s just stating what he thinks is obvious while also being dismissive of what was everyone’s working theory. Honestly, it’s a little bit suspicious.

Next to him, Paul-also-called-Jesus nods in agreement, biting his lower lip in a nervous manner a bt reminiscent of how Daryl does it. He doesn’t look at anyone, but he’s tapping his foot, another sign of anxiety. Rick remembers how the man was supposedly going to apply for a position in Baltimore to specialize in orcas. Daryl was so surprised to hear that; Rick can’t help but wonder why the sudden interest.

Carol makes a frustrated sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a growl. “I can’t work with you people! You’re about as reasonable as a hungry Mako shark. We’ve all been talking about an orca attack from the start, from the moment we agreed that Daryl went missing. And now you’re telling me you think that’s not what you think happened? That you’re somehow absolutely, one hundred percent sure Eugene Porter is not in fact an orca, and he hasn’t been kidnapping sharks to make snacks of their livers?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” Aaron agrees. “Glad we got that settled.”

They glare at each other, and Rick can see how everyone becomes uneasy in the suddenly tense atmosphere. Paul’s hands tighten into fists, and he looks around nervously before he stands up to move to where Eric is seated. Professor King pulls his fiancee closer like he’s trying to both hold her back and protect her from a possible attack all at the same time. Even Rick, mostly unaffected by the unexpected animosity between colleagues, feels like his heart will choke him any moment, the way it beats frantically somewhere at the bottom of his throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s the nerves or the, what did they call it? Separation anxiety. 

Only Eric remains unmoved where he sits on his chair, and his face takes on a resigned expression, like he’s very tired. He looks at Rick, straight at Rick, and in that instant, Rick knows. He **knows.**

“Oh,” he gasps, but it’s not in shock over what he just realized. It’s because his chest constricts painfully, once, twice, and he suddenly finds himself barely able to stand upright anymore. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes.

_ One, two, three, _ he counts mentally in an attempt to calm down, but it doesn’t really work. His heart is doing things. Jumping up and down his chest, to his throat, choking him. He feels hands on him, Eric who was the first to notice him doubling over by the wall, holding onto it for support and gaping like a fish out of water.

There’s a knock on the door, some commotion as Aaron goes to get it, and Eric pats Rick gently on the cheek. It’s hard to focus on him, but Rick tries. He looks straight at Eric, takes in his worried expression and his warm brown eyes, and tries not to let his vision swim away from him again.

“Rick. Rick! Are you alright?” Eric asks, the same concern lacing his voice as before when Rick explained about his newfound condition the first time.

“Don’t… don’t know,” Rick huffs out. “It hurts,” he whimpers, and if he wasn’t in so much pain, he would be embarrassed about how weak he sounds.

“Come on, take a seat,” the man says, and helps Rick to the bed. Sitting down, it’s easier to take the pain, even if it’s slightly harder to breathe. Rick tries to, though. In and out. Yes. Good. When he concentrates on breathing, it almost doesn’t hurt.

“Is this a bad time?” Asks a young woman Aaron opens the door to. Rick takes a quick look, hoping to distract himself from the pain by making observations. 

The woman’s obviously been getting ready for bed before she came here, because she’s dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt with two cuddling fish and an inscription saying _ sleep with the fishes _. Rick has seen her around when Daryl was in the infirmary. She dropped by a few times to visit the doctor working there. 

The same doctor who is now accompanying her, similarly dressed in pajamas, with her glasses slightly crooked and her hair disheveled. 

“We heard Daryl went missing,” the dark-haired woman continues, and everyone looks at her with various degrees of suspicion. “Oh, come on, guys. Everybody heard. I’d be surprised if Abe at the steakhouse doesn’t know that yet. We’re all tight, okay? We tell each other stuff.”

“Tara,” the doctor mutters, elbowing her in the side.

The woman named Tara gives her a vaguely offended look, but shakes her head. “Yes, right. So we heard Daryl went missing, and Denise thinks she can help.”

“Can you?” Carol asks, glaring sharply at the young doctor. Everyone else looks at her too.

Denise blushes fiercely under the scrutiny, obviously not used to being in the spotlight. “Uhm. Yes, I think I can,” she says softly. “I mean. Can we come in?”

“Please,” Aaron mutters, stepping aside to let both women inside. 

Like she has a sixth sense for people in trouble, Denise’s eyes immediately zero in on Rick. It’s not difficult to tell he’s in need of some medical assistance, probably, the way he’s sitting slouched on the bed, breathing in short gasps as he tries to both pay attention to what’s going on and ignore the pain rippling through him.

“What’s wrong with him?” The doctor asks, a professional note in her tone that leaves no room for questioning. She walks towards Rick and checks his pulse.

“Gosh, his heart is racing. And he’s burning up,” she mutters under her breath. “What’s going on here? Isn’t this Daryl’s boyfriend?”

“Mate would be a better term,” Eric says helpfully, “and he’s going through what we think is separation anxiety. It’s like when sharks get separated during the mating rituals before the mating can be consummated, and-”

“I don’t really care about sharks right now, thank you, Doctor Raleigh,” Denise says sharply. She looks directly at Rick. “Where does it hurt?”

Rick points vaguely to where he thinks the pangs of pain are originating from. When Denise tugs on the collar of his shirt, he doesn’t fight her, and eventually she pulls it aside to reveal the old scar on his chest. In spite of Rick’s expectations, there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about the scar; he sort of thought it would be blackened and have those black tendrils of infection coming out of it like he saw in that one movie. But alas, it looks completely normal, even though it still remains at the center of where he’s hurting.

“Tara, help me hold him upright. It’ll be easier to breathe that way. Jesus, I need you to run to my infirmary real quick,” Denise commands. “There should be a vial of verapamil HCL in the cabinet, here, grab my key.”

“Vera-what?” Paul asks.

“It’s a calcium channel blocker, verapamil HCL, it’s labelled very clearly,” Denise explains impatiently. “Just, go, you’ll question me later.”

For the next few moments, the world becomes very hazy. Rick thinks he’s floating or something like that. He knows things. He knows he’s in pain, his breathing is erratic, and Denise is saying something to him, but it doesn’t register in his brain as real words. And he misses Daryl. Where is Daryl? He was supposed to be with Rick forever. Why is he gone? It’s so wrong. Everything is so wrong. The world is wrong. Rick just needs Daryl back. He needs Daryl. Without him, it’s impossible to breathe, and Rick needs-

There’s a sharp pinprick in the crook of his arm, and then within the next few minutes, Rick’s heartbeat slows down. The red haze around his mind all but vanishes and he discovers he is capable of breathing again. Blinking owlishly, he looks up at Denise who lets out a relieved sigh.

“Okay. So maybe you won’t die just yet,” she says cheerfully. “Whew. This was scary. I was worried verapamil wouldn’t work, but hey, it did so we’re all fine.”

“Thank you,” Rick says wheezily. The pain subsides, reduced to that dull throbbing he has already managed to get used to. The panic, the nagging thoughts about Daryl not being there, it all goes away to a dark corner in the back of Rick’s mind, lurking still, but not so overwhelming anymore.

Denise scoffs at him. “It’s my job,” she says. “Now, I’m just wondering how come you almost had a heart attack in a room full of scientists. I mean, I know these guys are all marine biologists, but I won’t believe they didn’t have the basics of human anatomy in their fancy schools.”

She says the last words to Rick, but it’s pretty obvious they’re not really directed at him.

“They were distracted,” Rick mutters, trying to make up an excuse when everyone else seem to look away, ashamed. He didn’t think his panic attack was that serious. Especially after the reveal these people just witnessed. They had to prioritize, and Rick’s been having these chest pains all day. Obviously, it couldn’t have been that serious.

It seems that nobody took into account that maybe humans weren’t built to withstand this kind of pressure for too long. Like many things to do with Daryl, it’s uncharted territory; who knows how Daryl’s whacky biology is going to affect Rick, going forward.

Whether they find him or not.

Eric clears his throat. “I didn’t think about it. I assumed the symptoms would go away on their own as soon as Daryl was back,” he confesses. “It was neglectful of me, and I’m sorry, Rick.”

“Speaking of Daryl,” Rick says, changing the subject because he feels uneasy with the attention, but also because he feels it’s best to draw everyone’s focus away from Eric for the time being. If what he thinks he knows is true… yeah, there are gonna be repercussions.

Best not have it out in the open for now. He will talk to Eric later, no doubt about it, because he has questions. But at the same time... he's actually inclined to believe Aaron's assessment. This is not about what Eric is or isn't; this is about Daryl, and Rick has a feeling Eric is really just as clueless about this as everyone else in the room. He can't be that good of an actor, and also, it would make no sense: what, he played Daryl's friend for so many years, ignored so many great opportunities when he could've made him go missing without anyone noticing, and then suddenly started stalking him? Swam around Rick's house on the off chance Daryl would casually go swimming? It doesn't really paint a sensible picture in Rick's mind, and because of that, he's willing to suspend his judgment for the time being. He'll have a talk with Eric soon. He'll ask him _what the actual fuck. _But not now.

At least that partially explains Paul-known-as-Jesus' sudden interest in marine mammals, and how some of them exhibit unusual mating habits. Which appear to directly translate into human relationships, if the way Aaron and Paul both seem to be hovering over Eric protectively is any indication. Rick can bet Daryl never saw this coming. He's way too confused by conventional relationships between people to even consider they might get more complex than that.

Shaking his head to his thoughts, Rick looks at Denise and asks: “Doctor, you said you know how to help us?”

The young doctor blinks, then flushes and chuckles nervously. “Ah, yes. Yes, I think I can help you.”

She looks at Tara, who reaches for her hand and squeezes it in reassurance. With her girlfriend’s support, the doctor inhales, exhales, and begins to talk.

“So as everyone probably knows, I’ve always been deathly afraid of sharks,” she says. “My brother, he was a surfer. He died when I was little. Shark attack, I was told. There were three fatal shark attacks that year, and he just happened to be caught up in one of them,” she takes in a shaky breath. “Well, anyway. I’m afraid of sharks, so uhm, when I found out Daryl has these teeth… I thought, there’s no way I’m letting him walk around unsupervised, you know? I was just angry, and I guess I felt betrayed, and kind of scared, too…”

“What did you do?” Rick asks softly.

“I chipped him,” Denise says quickly, and she sort of duck behind Tara like she expects to be attacked.

“You chipped… excuse me, what?” Carol inquires, incredulous.

“I injected him with a locator chip. Like those the Institute used last year for those tiny sharks, what are they called? Dwarf lantern something? Because they’re too small to use proper tags, and you were tracking a colony, and anyway there were a few leftover chips in storage so I took one and I injected it into Daryl’s arm when he was unconscious. I’m so sorry!”

Nobody says anything to that for a while before Professor King breaks the silence.

“Normally, I would say how very disappointed I am with your conduct, Doctor Cloyd,” he says in a stern voice. “But today is a strange day indeed, and these are unusual circumstances. Your unprofessional behavior may just have brought us closer to finding our missing friend.”

Denise nods tersely. “Do you need my resignation, sir?” She asks softly.

“We’ll talk about this later, hopefully after Mr. Dixon is found, but I don’t think so,” Ezekiel says. “Right now, we all have a locator chip to track. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, we're going back to Daryl's point of view. We're all curious about what happened to him, aren't we?


	33. Chapter 33

Daryl’s first thought upon awakening is,  _ Shouldna gotten so mad with Rick,  _ and he doesn’t even remember why he was angry in the first place. Actually, to be honest, he doesn’t remember falling asleep, neither. He was swimming, he can recall that, but he’s not supposed to be swimming, so why the hell was he swimming anyway? And, more to the point, why isn’t he swimming anymore? Huh.

He opens his eyes to the sting of saltwater, which is strange because it’s not supposed to sting unless it’s contaminated or something. He’s submerged, but it quickly becomes apparent he’s not in the ocean. In fact, he’s in what looks to be a tank?... Only it’s tiny, barely big enough to hold him, and his arms are sticking out at the sides through insulated holes that cut off his circulation. Frowning, Daryl tries to retract one arm, but finds that it’s impossible. In fact, he can barely move at all, mostly to turn his head from side to side, and even that minuscule movement he is allowed is sluggish. Like he’s very, very tired. There’s a throbbing, dull pain in his chest, but it’s welcome somehow - reminds him of Rick; and as his vision becomes a little clearer the longer he’s awake, he notices that there’s bone sticking out of his shoulder. 

It’s the arm that almost got severed by Joe in the diving tank. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Over two weeks. The wound should’ve healed by now. Did it get reopened when he wasn’t looking?...

Vaguely, he remembers a sharp pain and immense jaws closing around him, and he groans. 

“You are awake, Mr. Dixon? Very well,” says a voice Daryl doesn’t recognize. It’s distorted by the water and Daryl looks around frantically, searching for its source. Obviously there is nothing in the tank with him, but after a confusing moment, he finally makes out an outline of a stocky person dressed in something white, standing outside the tank. The voice is coming through a device mounted on the glass a little above his eye level. Daryl glares at it. 

“I see you noticed my little invention,” the man outside the tank says. “I must admit I am very proud of it. It has certainly made our work much easier than it used to be before. You see, the basic principle of its functionality is quite simple. It measures the air oscillation at the source of a voice and then imitates the value to prevent excessive distortion, effectively eliminating any disturbances in communication between-”

“Fuck you,” Daryl says. The water when it enters his mouth is sour. Either there’s something added to it to account for the taste, or the filtering system in this tiny tank sucks. Anyways, the size of this thing is ridiculous. Wouldn’t be good enough for a damn goldfish.

“My apologies, Mr. Dixon, I did not catch that. I am afraid the comm system only works one way,” the stocky man informs him, but contrary to his words, he doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “In fact, it was designed this way. We have no interest in hearing any screams, you see. It would be morbid and, indeed, it might serve to decrease the morale of the staff. You must understand, we are all sensitive people here.”

Daryl doesn’t tell the man where he can shove his sensitivity because according to what he just said, it would be useless. Instead, he concentrates on making his eyes work through the haze. He’s pretty sure there’s some sort of a chemical dye in the water making it harder to see stuff. Nevertheless, he can almost make out some shit behind the stocky man’s form: tables, mostly, and cabinets, and at least one more tank about the same size as the one he’s stuck in. He recognizes the shape of a microscope on one of the tables because it reminds him of the one Eric uses.

So he’s in a lab. Figures. The moment he lets his guard down and all but forgets about labs being a danger, he ends up in one. 

“I will take a blood sample now,” the stocky man announces. He must be some sort of a scientist. The white clothes he’s wearing are probably a lab coat. Daryl’s vision is still too fuzzy to make out details, but he guesses so. Scientists wear lab coats. Eric does. 

The man approaches the tank on Daryl’s left flank. He does something and Daryl feels a pinprick in the crook of his arm, followed by the unpleasant suction he associates with a syringe drawing blood. He growls and tries to snatch his arm away, but it remains suspended limply. His fingers barely twitch.

“Ah, please do not try to be difficult, Mr. Dixon,” the stocky man requests in a polite tone. “It will be much easier on all of us if you cooperate. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He withdraws the needle and walks away to one of the cabinets. 

“I must admit, I am incredibly pleased with your acquisition,” he adds after a moment. “Your condition is quite interesting from a scientific point of view. We knew that in very rare cases, some shark species may suffer from what has in some instances been called  _ separation anxiety.  _ You appear to be undergoing the same ordeal. Were you, by chance, in the middle of a mating cycle? Is there a partner we should be looking into, to further our knowledge of the condition?”

“His partner is off-limits, Eugene,” says a new voice from somewhere beyond Daryl’s field of vision. It’s familiar, though. Difficult to place, like it belongs to someone Daryl doesn’t know very well. But he knows it. He’s sure of it.

“Yes, sir, my apologies,” the stocky man replies dutifully. “May I inquire as to why, though? This phenomenon is indeed very rare and a full examination would be very useful in furthering our knowledge exponentially.”

“Because I said so,” the other man says sternly. “You know what? Go away. Play with the other subject. I think she might be getting hungry.”

“Sir-” the stocky man protests.

“Now, Eugene.”

The lab coat-wearing man does as he’s told and Daryl is left in the room - lab? - with the other, more dangerous-seeming guy. The newcomer approaches the tank. He’s dressed in dark clothes:  _ not a scientist, _ Daryl’s mind supplies. So he’s probably not someone he met at the Institute during the various symposiums or whatever those fancy-ass science meetings were called. Who, then?

His thoughts go to that sleazy bastard Blake, but he discards the idea immediately. This guy sounds nothing like Blake. 

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” The man asks in a voice tinged with amusement. “That’s cute. Completely adorable. I guess Eugene went overboard with happy drugs. He never quite grasped the concept of the weight-dosage ratio,” he explains. 

Daryl frowns and opens his mouth to tell the man to go fuck himself, but stops himself when he remembers the stupid device doesn’t work that way. He glares through the green-tinted water and the thick glass in front of him.

“I’ve got a great idea. Let’s play a game,” the man suggests. “I’ll give you three clues, we’ll see if you can guess who I am. How about that?”

Daryl doesn’t reply. He continues to glare at the man through narrowed eyes, which he apparently takes as assent because he hums like he’s deep in thought.

“Okay, first clue. I’m considered really fucking sexy. Like, god-tier level of sexiness. Damn, I feel like this might’ve been a dead giveaway. No? Oooh, look at you, still none the wiser. You’re kinda dumb, aren’t you? Ugh, alright. Another clue. Listen carefully.”

Dary is suddenly reminded of something someone said to him, in that same derisive tone.  _ I’d keep you, but I have no use for a brainless brute. _ When was that? Couldn’t have been too long ago or he wouldn’t be able to remember the words so clearly. But when exactly? Fuck this, why can’t he remember?

“Hint number two: we had some fun together once or twice. We cleaned a beach. I tried to bite your leg, you threw a book at me. That was rude, by the way.”

_ He’s the orca,  _ Daryl thinks. 

“There it is! Some semblance of intellect behind those weird suspicious little eyes of yours, good. But you’re still not sure, are you? Oh boy. And I thought your brother was the dumb one.”

“Merle,” Daryl gasps out. Of course, it comes out as nothing but bubbles in the green-tinted water, but the man outside the tank must’ve understood anyway because he laughs.

“Ah yes, that was his name! Dear old Merle. He was a resilient one, that guy. I admit, when he died, I cried a little,” he says. 

_ Merle is dead, _ Daryl realizes, and he feels a heavy weight sinking in his chest. He hasn’t seen his brother in five years, but somehow, he always believed Merle was out there somewhere, maybe not free, but alive at least. All this time, he told himself one day, he was gonna find Merle in whatever lab he was being kept at. He’d help his brother escape. That was always the plan. 

Only he’s too late, and now that  _ one day _ will never come.

“Aww, don’t be sad, man,” the guy outside the tank says. “Daaamn, you’re ugly when you cry. Whatever does Rick see in you? I mean, sure, you’re fit, I like your biceps, but your face could use some work. Must be chemistry, I suppose. It’s a pity he isn’t like us, isn’t it? He’s such a pretty man. He’d make the most beautiful babies. I guess some things aren’t meant to be,” he sighs. 

“Aaaand you still don’t know who I am,” he adds. “Man. It’s almost insulting. I’ve half a mind to get Eugene back here so he can like, dunno, electrocute you a little. Might jog your Goddamn memory. Look at me, you ugly bastard. Come on, look at me.”

Daryl does. He still doesn’t see much, his vision is still just as hazy, but he can make out some details that escaped him before: dark hair, stubble on the man’s face. And that voice. That voice. He hates that voice. He hates that the voice talks about Rick. About  _ his  _ Rick. He hates-

“Negan,” he spits out. 

“There he goes!” The man says with glee. “See, I knew you had it in you. Good boy. Maybe you won’t be a total waste of time after all.”

Daryl’s head is spinning. Some things are starting to make sense. Negan’s smell, the suffocating cologne he was wearing all the time, it must’ve been to mask the inherent scent of the ocean the likes of Daryl carry about all the time. His old wife, the way she called Rick and Daryl mates. How he hates the plastic pollution as much as Daryl does, even though it seemed so out of character for a rich pretentious bastard. And he knew Daryl’s name before Daryl told him. It bothered Daryl at the time, but he was too distracted by Rick to think about it too hard.

The guy even has brown eyes. For fuck’s sake, how did Daryl  _ not  _ realize the dude was the orca all along?

“Now, I’ve got some stuff to do. Preparations, you know? Sooo much happening around here nowadays,” Negan says with a note of regret in his tone which sounds fake. “Don’t worry, though, Eugene will take great care of you. We have a lot of plans for you. None of the others had the hormonal thing you’ve got going on, so I’m kinda counting on that to be real breakthrough shit. Don’t disappoint me, alright? Or I might rethink that whole  _ Rick being off-limits  _ idea. You get what I’m saying?”

_ You touch one hair on Rick’s head and I’ll fucking destroy you,  _ is what Daryl wants to say to that. He tries to thrash, to leap forward like a breaching Great White, to break through the glass and just rip into the damn bastard with his teeth - but he can’t move. His muscles are stiff and his limbs won’t listen to him. It’s like his body is still asleep even though his brain is functioning normally. He can’t breach, he can’t so much as shake his head.

What the fuck have they done to him?

“It’s nice how you’re still fighting,” Negan observes with amusement. “You’ve got some spunk, I got to admit. I like it. Your brother was the same, but ultimately, he outlived his usefulness. Let’s just hope you’ll be a better replacement, yes? It would be a pity if I had to kill another shark so soon. There’s so few of us left, after all.”

With those words, the man walks away, leaving Daryl gaping at the revelation.

A shark? He’s a shark? But! That’s not- it’s not possible. Daryl saw his eyes. They’re brown, sharks don’t have brown eyes. At least none that Daryl knows about, and he knows his sharks, for fuck’s sake! And his teeth. They’re normal. Human-like. The bastard grinned so much in front of Daryl during that flight and at the party, it would be impossible to miss if he had sharp serrated teeth like Daryl’s!

He can’t be a shark. He’s just… he’s making shit up. That must be it. He’s trying to fuck with Daryl, to confuse him even further. That’s it, for sure. Maybe the same goes for all that Negan said about Merle. Maybe he never even met Merle at all, or if he did, Merle just punched him in the face and ran away, and now he’s living in some tropical paradise with a bunch of girls and lots of booze, just like he always wanted.

Must be. 

Still, fuck. Whether the guy is a lying sack of shit or no, it doesn’t change the fact that Daryl is stuck in a teeny-tiny fish tank with shitty oxygenation and some grint shit floating about. His arm is all but severed and he can’t move for shit. So, lots of shit all around. Plus he’s pretty sure his friends won’t be looking for him: only Rick would know he’s missing, and Rick is out in Atlanta doing important things. Means Daryl is on his own in this.

Which sucks, no two ways about it. With how useless his body is acting, it seems like he might be stuck here for a while. Wherever  _ here  _ even is; some sort of lab, that much Daryl can see, but  _ where?  _ He doesn’t feel grounded like he usually does when he’s on land. His senses work like he’s in the ocean, even though obviously he is not, and the only time he ever felt this weird was when Carol and Sophia dragged him to Chincoteague Island to have a picnic at night. Both the ferry ride and the island itself gave Daryl a headache in that he could sense the ocean around him, so his body wanted to swim, but he knew he was still bound to land. 

He feels the same way right now, despite the saltwater in the tank. Either he’s going crazy from whatever green chemical they’re infusing the water with… or the lab is located on an island. Maybe on a ship, though Daryl hasn’t heard of labs on ships before. It would take a big ship to fit a lab, wouldn’t it? Unless it’s a really tiny lab. A lab for roaches. Yep, then it could fit on a boat. But a lab which keeps sharks? Even human-sharks like Daryl? They’d need, like, the Titanic- no, wait, that one sunk. That’s a stupid thought anyway. It’s more likely the lab isn’t on a ship at all. Unless Negan found himself a big, big line cruiser-

Oh. Of course. 

_ Son of a bitch,  _ Daryl thinks as he remembers the conversation between two waitresses back in Abe’s steakhouse. What was that big-ass ship called, the one they were getting all excited about?  _ Queen of the Depths?  _ Fuck, a luxury ship like that would definitely fit a lab or two. And it goes from place to place, not easy to detect. Even if someone managed to escape, they’d very likely find themselves on a ship in the middle of the ocean fuck knows where. In the water, Daryl could always tell where to go to find the nearest shore; but would he take a chance in unknown waters, with no idea how many miles separated him from home?

Dying in the sea sounds only marginally better than dying in a secret lab. 

_ I kinda know where we are,  _ Daryl reminds himself. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to pinpoint his own position on a map if he had one right now, but he is reasonably sure he’s not that far from Virginia Beach. If his guess is correct, and unless he was asleep for much longer than he thought, then he’s actually moving closer to the shore with each passing moment. The damn ship’s supposed to have some kinda event with music and shit happening soon, isn’t it? Fancy stuff for fancy people. Means once it arrives, it’s going to be anchored in Virginia Beach for at least a couple of days. 

And that means Daryl has a chance. He just has to bide his time… and regain some movement in his useless limbs. Can’t be too hard, now can it?

He looks at his injured arm. It seems to be healing, but at an alarmingly slow pace. It doesn’t hurt, but that’s normal in saltwater. It also doesn’t bleed, which is strange. Daryl can see the meat and bone. The edges of the wound are rough. It looks like there’s a chunk of flesh missing. A bite-sized chunk. Human bite, to be precise. At least the bite marks are consistent with what a shark attack would cause, if sharks had teeth that would fit in a human’s jaw. Whenever Daryl bit himself, he’d leave marks a bit like that. Less severe because he wouldn’t tear out his own flesh like an idiot, but similarly shaped. 

So maybe Negan isn’t lying. Maybe he really is a shark.

Why, then, was Daryl so convinced it was a killer whale that attacked him that time he went swimming at the beach by the Institute? Sure, he was out of it by the time he came to that conclusion, but something must’ve pointed him to it. His gut, some sort of inborn instinct. There was an orca in the water that day, Daryl’s as sure of it as of the fact that he misses Rick like crazy. Which again leads to the conclusion that Negan is messing with his head.

_ I tried to bite your leg, you threw a book at me,  _ Negan said. 

But… the orca, or what Daryl thought - thinks - was the orca, it did bite his leg. There was no trying there. Something, some _ one  _ bit his leg before Daryl bit back, and he still has a scar on his calf to prove it. 

Is there something  _ other than Negan  _ in the water? For fuck’s sake. Daryl really liked Virginia Beach for the ten years he’s lived there, but he’s starting to consider moving to somewhere more secluded. He doesn’t enjoy being prey when he’s used to being the predator. Does he look like a fucking seal or something? He’s quite sure he lost some weight lately, after all that  _ strenuous activity  _ with Rick, so he can’t be that appealing as a potential meal. 

If that’s even what Negan wants to do with him. Seems like an awful lot of effort just to eat someone, all this secret lab bullshit. But if it’s not the guy’s intention, what does he want with Daryl?

Oh well. It doesn’t matter. Daryl’s going to break out of here soon. Very soon. For the time being, he decides to gather his strength and focus on observing the enemy. That’s the only way he can get some answers. And once he’s out - he’s going back to Rick. Nothing can stop him. Not some stocky scientist that talks bullshit, not a publishing agent dude who thinks he’s cooler than he really is, not an orca somewhere out in the ocean. Nothing.

As soon as he’s out of here, he’s going home, and he’s never leaving again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next will be one more chapter in Daryl's point of view, then two from Rick's, and then the rest will be Daryl until the end.   
I'm on fire, guys. Already working on chapter 36! Expect two updates a week to my lovely sharks.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of medical experimentation on humans, death of children.

The stocky science dude Negan called Eugene comes back after some time, but he doesn’t pay any special attention to Daryl. He shuffles about the lab, doing some shit that scientists generally do, examining stuff, looking at the microscope or whatever. Daryl observes him as discreetly as it’s possible with nothing to hide behind; but after the first few - minutes? Hours? - he has to admit he’s only following the guy’s movements because he’s bored out of his mind.

That’s the problem with being stuck in a tiny tank where he can’t even swim in circles: in addition to being suffocating and incredibly unhygienic, it’s also boring like hell. He tried to entertain himself with thoughts about Rick, but that only served to make him more frustrated because obviously, Rick isn’t here. Which is a very good thing: Daryl would literally  _ kill someone  _ if Negan got his grubby hands on Rick. But it’s a problem in that nice memories of time spent with his mate remind Daryl of their separation, and that’s not soothing at all.

So he watches the scientist. 

For a moment there, he thought if Negan really isn’t an orca, then maybe this weird science guy of his might be. He’s weird enough, definitely doesn’t seem all that adjusted to human standards. But then, what business would a shark have working with a killer whale? Plus, the stocky scientist doesn’t seem all that cunning or predatory. He stumbles over his own feet once or twice, and he sings a halfway decent rendition of a popular song Daryl heard on the radio. He even forgets himself and uses the tank Daryl is trapped in as a mirror to fix his hair, which is done up in a wanky style. He uses something slick, some sort of product he combs into his mane with spread fingers. He then cleans off the remainder of the product on his lab coat. 

Nothing about the guy screams threatening, so Daryl finds it less and less probable by the minute that Eugene What’s-His-Name is actually a killer whale in disguise. He seems about as dangerous as Eric, only much, much less friendly.

Daryl regrets a lot of things he did immediately prior to his kidnapping, but most of all, he regrets not going to see Eric at the Institute about the discomfort in his chest caused by the absence of his mate. It doesn’t hurt anymore, not really, it’s just a sort of dull throb which makes him constantly aware that something of his is missing; it’s like the way he knows a chunk of flesh in his arm is missing without feeling any pain. He hopes Rick is fine, too, and he wonders if Eric could’ve told him more about why it all happened in the first place. Does he really have a palpable bond with his mate? Can they learn to utilize it to communicate long-distance, or is it only going to cause them distress every time they have to be apart for a while? 

Eugene the science dude knows something about it. He said as much. He said Daryl’s the first one he’s seen it happen to, but that means he at least has some understanding of what  _ it  _ is. Negan, too, but Daryl will be damned if he believes a single thing coming out of Negan’s mouth. It surprises him, how much he hates that slimy, smug bastard. He’s got a temper, sure, he’s quick to hate shit and he’s usually very loud about it, but the thing is, Daryl’s not used to hating a specific person. It’s different than disliking pollution in the oceans, or being disgusted with some social norms he thinks make no sense, or even from the anger he felt when he found out about Aaron cheating on Eric that time. Mainly, it’s destructive; it feels like there’s a fire burning inside of him, but not the good kind of fire that Rick’s proximity tends to ignite. No, it’s a different sort of fire, dark, intense and ever-hungry. When Daryl thinks about it too long, he begins to imagine scenarios in which he gets to unload all this hatred on Negan, and the things he imagines scare the shit out of him.

He never killed a human. He mauled one, for Carol’s sake, ten years ago; but he never seriously considered murdering somebody. Now he is. He’s thinking about it. If Negan gives him the opportunity - a reason - if Negan so much as breathes wrong in Rick’s direction… 

Daryl doesn’t want to become what he fears he might, if given this chance.

“It is now ten hundred hours,” Eugene announces to the mostly empty lab. Daryl can’t help but notice there don’t seem to be any other scientists besides the stocky man. It annoys him a little. The staff at Alexandria Institute have to share labs and equipment, and here this dude is, with all that space and stuff just for himself. Does he really work there alone? Or is it some sort of night shift he’s pulling, and there’s going to be a whole flock of creepy dudes in lab coats staring at Daryl and poking at him with needles soon?

“Mr. Dixon, I hope you are feeling adequate,” Eugene says, addressing him even though he knows there’s no reply coming. Daryl rolls his eyes. 

“I will be drawing another blood sample. Then, I will put you on an intravenous infusion, also known as phleboclysis, which is a scientific name for what you may simply know as a  _ drip.  _ It will inject vitamins and micronutrients directly into your system without the necessity of solid food ingestion,” the scientist drones on. It’s boring, the way he speaks, combined with his monotone voice and bland expression. Daryl almost misses the fact that the guy is going to be injecting something into him. 

He growls, bares his teeth and curls his fingers into tight fists; it’s an impulse, and he’s surprised when it actually works. It’s the most his muscles have obeyed him since he woke up. Maybe whatever the green shit in the water is, he’s building up an immunity. 

“Oh, this is good. I see your peripheral nervous system is regaining its functionality. The drip will obviously contain a measure of tranquilizers to keep you agreeable, but I am nevertheless very pleased to note that the initial dosage of tetrodotoxin has not irrevocably damaged your nerve receptors.”

_ Shut up,  _ Daryl wants to say. It’s something he’s been thinking a lot today. After this shit is all over, he’s going to have to surround himself only with people who don’t annoy him, and make them  _ not talk  _ at him for three days straight. Or he might shut himself in Rick’s bedroom. With Rick. And also  _ not talk.  _ He hasn’t decided yet.

But the fact Eugene is pleased with Daryl’s being able to move his hands is a good sign. Makes Daryl hopeful that he’ll be allowed a certain range of movement, and if he’s careful, he might be able to deceive the science dude and eventually regain full control over his body. It may take a while, but Daryl’s nothing if not patient. Or… well, he can be. If he has to. It’s not like he has a lot of shit to do in the tiny tank he barely fits inside of.

Eugene draws blood from the same arm he did before, and then he moves to the other side of the tank and sticks a thick needle into the other arm. Daryl knows the needle is thick because he feels it, and it hurts like a little bitch. His arm twitches on instinct, almost hitting the scientist, and Eugene frowns. 

“Please, Mr. Dixon, let us not resort to violent measures,” he demands. “I have chosen not to inconvenience you with additional restraints in order not to overwhelm you in this undoubtedly uncomfortable situation, but if you continue to be difficult, I will have to take appropriate disciplinary action.”

Daryl mutters something into the water, something only he knows means  _ idiot,  _ but Eugene must take it as compliance because he doesn’t attempt to shackle Daryl’s hands to where they are laid out. Instead, he finishes setting up the drip thingy, and he nods in satisfaction.

“The drip also contains a cocktail of proteins to aid in the recovery of your wound,” the scientist says. “The healing process in your species is incredibly fascinating, and I intend to uncover all of its little  _ tricks,  _ if you may. For example, I have not reset the bone in order to observe how your body works around the obvious obstacle. Previous experiments show that regardless of how many times the bone is re-broken, its structure remains strong. I wonder if it is the same if the angle is not corrected before the healing concludes.”

“Oh, Eugene, you little sick fucker, you,” Negan coos from where Daryl supposes the entrance to the lab must be. “Every time I hear you explain the specifics of your work, it gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“I aim to please, Mr. Negan,” Eugene assures the man. 

Daryl rolls his eyes, because he’s pretty sure what Negan said wasn’t supposed to be a compliment. He wonders why he’s not concerned over the fact his arm is set up to heal all wrong or something. In fact, he’s feeling good. Relaxed.

Ah, yes. The tranquilizers Eugene mentioned. Little sick fucker. 

“You’re done for the night, I assume?” Negan asks the scientist. 

“Yes, sir,” Eugene replies. “I will return to my duties tomorrow at seven hundred hours on the clock, as always. I wish you a pleasant night.”

“Yeah, you too,” Negan mutters, obviously no longer paying attention to the guy.

Over the course of the conversation, he’s come up to the tank and he’s now standing directly in front of Daryl. He seems awfully pleased with himself. Daryl notes that despite his drug-induced dizziness, his vision is clearer than before. He can see things now that he missed before, like the glasses Negan is wearing and the fact that his eyes are definitely  _ not  _ brown. 

They’re blue. Not the same as Daryl’s; they’re darker, like the depths of a trench at the bottom of the sea. Like a place where monsters lurk, waiting for an unsuspecting diver to fall prey to their powerful jaws. The sort of blue that’s almost black, to someone who doesn’t know better. 

They’re the eyes of the ultimate predator. The fucking king of sharks, but not a benevolent one like in those Hawaiian legends Rick read to Daryl between kisses. He’s the king like Daryl imagines a king among predators, immense and magnificent, and cruel in a way only a predator acting on instinct alone can be perceived as cruel by creatures with emotional capacity that he lacks.

A true shark. He’s nothing like what Daryl is; he’s  _ more. _ And that’s worse.

“I like that guy,” Negan says coolly, and neither his voice nor his expression seem to back up his claim of any sort of affection. “The way his mind works. He’s a genius, but not really the kind that sells well, if you get my meaning. I found him years ago when he got himself kicked out of school. Did you know you can get kicked out of school for being too clever? Apparently, that’s a thing. Good for me, though. He’s full of great ideas. He made me this really cool dentures, see?” His mouth stretches in a wide grin, showing off teeth which, upon closer inspection, look a little too white and too even to be real.

Daryl looks at him. He’s not sure where this is leading up to, but it’s not like he has a choice other than listen to Negan talk. The guy must love his voice. He certainly talks a lot.

“Anyway, that’s not what I came up to tell you,” Negan continues, shrugging, and his smile disappears. “In fact, I thought about it long and hard, and I decided I owe it to you. The explanation. You know? You’re a good listener, all things considered. I think I already told you more about myself than I ever told anybody else. It’s almost like you’re my friend. Obviously, you’re not, I mean,  _ duh, _ ” he rolls his eyes, “but you’re great at listening to shit. So because of that, you earned yourself a little story. Don’t disappoint me by falling asleep on me or something, okay?”

Daryl wishes for nothing more than for sleep to overtake him right here and now, but alas, he’s not sleepy at all. He feels both energized and tired at once. Must be the little drug mix Eugene cooked up for him in the drip thing.

Negan runs a hand through his hair, fixes his glasses and sighs. “I told you how I married my Lucille when I was very young, remember?” He asks and clearly expects an answer, so Daryl nods, trying not to annoy him with a frowny expression or a smirk or anything. Annoying the guy who’s got him trapped in a very tiny container - a guy who’s got a  _ lot  _ of teeth, too - doesn’t seem like a particularly smart idea. It seems he succeeded, because Negan tilts his head and goes on:

“I was barely mature back then, but already I knew she was everything I wanted. Of course, she didn’t want me, not at first. I had to win her over,” he smiles fondly to his memories. “I fought many rivals before Lucille finally chose me. If only you saw her then! She was magnificent. The mark she left on my shoulder still burns like back when we mated for the first time. Took a chunk out of me, it never grew back. It was proof she chose me, and it was an immense honor, and we were happy.

“But you know why sharks mate with each other, Daryl? No, you wouldn’t, because you’re faulty. Proper sharks mate in order to produce offspring,” Negan says then, tone changing to something wistful. “As it turned out, Lucille and I were not so lucky. We were a match made in heaven, or in hell, pick one, but alas, no matter how many times we mated, we would not be blessed with little ones. I mean,” he scoffs, “there were children. Lucille gave birth to three over the years, but they didn’t grow teeth before the one year mark, so we disposed of them. You will never understand how painful it was for both of us, how disappointing. Two magnificent creatures like us, the strongest of our kind, of the most potent bloodlines - and we could not create a life worthy of inheriting that legacy!”

Daryl stares at Negan, and even over the calming effect of the drugs, he feels horrified. Did the man really just admit to… killing his own pups? Because they were not sharks? That’s… Daryl doesn’t have words to describe it. He doesn’t know what to call somebody who can kill their own blood for a stupid reason like that. What does it matter if the pups were sharks or not? What difference does it make? They’re still pups, they deserve to be loved and protected, not… not killed by their own parents. For not being what their parents expected. For being  _ wrong,  _ somehow.

Negan isn’t done with his story, though he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to whether Daryl is listening or not anymore. He’s so immersed in his own world, it probably doesn’t matter to him at all if Daryl’s judging him or not.

“For a long while, my love blamed herself for our failure. But I could not believe someone as flawless as my Lucille could be at fault for this, so I began to search for answers. In my quest, I met many others of our kind, or of similar but inferior nature. Eventually, I discovered that indeed, it was not Lucille who failed to produce a worthy heir, but myself. You see, Daryl, as it turns out, sharks cannot be born of males of our kind. I didn’t know that before. I never met my father, and my mother didn’t say he wasn’t one of us,” Negan says, and puts his hand on the glass in front of Daryl’s face. “Can you imagine my disappointment at the discovery? My grief? I would never have a child whom I could teach to swim and hunt, whom I could love… and worse yet, I would never be able to give Lucille the child she so desperately desired! I couldn’t stand that. I had to do something. I didn’t know what, but I knew I couldn’t just accept it.”

He walks away, makes a circle in the middle of the room, then returns to the front of the tank. Daryl immediately draws the comparison to a villain in a movie: the dramatic act alone makes Negan vaguely reminiscent of bad guys in cartoons Daryl watched with Sophia, never mind the evil monologue and over-the-top gestures. The guy is ridiculous. Daryl’s previous impression of a terrifying, ruthless predator easily gives way to a picture of, like, a cartoon-ish shark with exaggerated teeth and a knife and fork held in hand-like fins. 

Again, it may be the drugs, but Daryl isn’t afraid of Negan anymore, even though he knows the image in his mind is deceitful: his gut tells him Negan isn’t somebody to underestimate, regardless of his fondness for acting dramatic.

“When I met Eugene, I already had the idea to fund some research into genetics and shit. Of course, I had to find me some professionals, scientists who could actually do the science I needed. My dear Doctor Porter was a heaven-sent. He already knew about our kind because his late father was a shark, too. I recruited him. For years we tried to find a cure or a workaround for the condition that wouldn’t allow me to give my Lucille her precious baby, but alas, it hasn’t happened yet, and Lucille… she’s out of time.”

Negan sighs, shakes his head and looks at Daryl intently. “But here you are, with your hormones and shit. Eugene says it’s what he needed, you know? We’re this close to a breakthrough. It’s not gonna do shit for Lucille and me, it’s too late for us, but maybe… maybe we can have that baby in a different way. Some cloning shit. Gene recombination. I don’t know, I have no idea what half of what Eugene says even means, but hell. I trust the guy to give me a solution while my love is still around so we can raise our long-awaited baby together.

“So. There. My sob story,” the man concludes, and makes a little bow like an actor at the end of a play. “Now you know what you’re here for. Why you’re really fucking important even though you’re dumb like a piss-bucket. So don’t screw this up for me, sweet cheeks, or I swear you’re going to be in a world of pain. Do we understand each other?”

Looking back at Negan, the man who is more shark than human and insane regardless, Daryl nods. He understands alright: he is facing the darkest version of what his kind can become. Someone with the intellect of a human, but the way of thinking and the emotional capacity of a true shark. Someone who would kill a pup for not having the right set of teeth, someone who would imprison, experiment on and murder others of his own kind to reach an impossible goal. For his own selfish reasons, Negan has been keeping others like Daryl inside his little secret lab; killing them while spouting bullshit about furthering bloodlines and doing it for love. 

He’s a madman, and he’s ridiculous in his antics - but also dangerous, because he believes he’s in his right. 

_ I’m gonna hafta kill ya, _ Daryl thinks, biting on his lower lip.  _ Dunno how, not yet, but just ya wait. I’mma make sure ya don’t multiply no matter what. _

And so, he’s going to bide his time and wait for an opportunity. He knows it will come eventually, and he’s going to be ready. He’s going to be prepared, because there’s one thing he’s absolutely certain of after what he just heard:

Negan is too dangerous to be allowed to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to be sort of an exposition chapter complete with the "monologuing villain" trope. I feel like Negan can fit this trope really well ;)
> 
> Next up: what are Rick and the others doing?


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: this is, without doubt, my favorite chapter so far, so if you hate it, don't tell me, please ;)

At first, Rick thinks the tracking device Denise injected in Daryl might be broken. His second thought is that the software Ezekiel shows them doesn’t pick up the right chip and is, in fact, showing the whereabouts of a shark in that colony the Institute tagged before. Otherwise, why would it be showing a location in the middle of the ocean? 

“It’s not the middle of the ocean,” Carol says, rolling her eyes, and her tone makes it very obvious that she thinks Rick is being dumb. “It’s only about a hundred miles away from the coastline. And it’s moving towards us, though not very fast from what I see..”

“Do you think he simply went swimming, swam too far out and is now struggling to come back?” Tara asks. She took it upon herself to make tea for everyone, which is how she sort of inserted herself into the group: nobody would turn away a girl with hot beverages at two in the morning. If it’s even called  _ morning.  _ Rick doesn’t know a single person who considers two AM to be a morning hour. 

“It’s possible,” Eric mutters, “but highly improbable. A real shark would’ve needed about three hours to swim out a hundred miles, provided it could really swim at a maximum speed all the time. For a human, even a shark-hybrid like Daryl, it would take much longer. A human could make it in… maybe twenty hours? Again, at maximum speed.”

“Daryl is kinda faster than your average human,” Jesus reminds him and takes a sip from his mug. He’s added some rum to his tea. He offered the bottle to others, but only Denise accepted the offer. Her cup must have more rum than tea by now, but if that’s what she needs to calm her nerves - and quiet her conscience, maybe - then so be it.

“Not average human,” Eric corrects, “fastest human. But let’s say he’s faster even than that. How fast do you think he can go? Six miles per hour? Seven? That’s still at least fifteen hours. That’s assuming he doesn’t need to rest, and he doesn’t have to change course because of ships, underwater currents, or other obstacles. So, yeah. Possible, maybe. But unlikely.”

“It was just a theory! Geez,” Tara mutters, sniffing, and takes a seat next to her girlfriend. 

Rick sighs. “It was a good theory,” he says, attempting to comfort the young woman. They really need to get along if they want to come up with some sort of game plan. All of the people gathered in this room care for Daryl in one way or another. All of them want to help. Rick really believes if they put their minds to it, together, they can actually get things done.

“It’s not moving fast enough to be an airplane,” Aaron comments, staring at the blinking dot on the screen. Indeed, it is moving at a slow pace. The distance indicator shows a gradually smaller number, but it definitely isn’t decreasing as fast as it would if Daryl was on a plane. Plus, it’s moving towards Virginia Beach, not away from it. If someone kidnapped Daryl, surely they would’ve tried to move him away from home?

“A ship, maybe?” Carol suggests. “I don’t know, are there any oceanic routes in that vicinity?”

Jesus checks on his phone. “Yup. Three, actually. One trade route crossing from Europe, a coastal route more to the north here,” he indicates a point on the tracker display screen with his finger, “and, guess what, a commercial route exactly here,” he points to the blinking dot.

“So what? He’s on a cruise ship? Are there even any scheduled to be out there at the moment?” Rick asks, frowning.

Ezekiel and Carol, Aaron, Jesus, Eric, Tara and even Denise all look at him like he’s from a different planet. 

“The Queen of the Depths,” Carol says like it’s obvious. 

Rick thinks he heard that particular phrase mentioned before. He just can’t remember when, and he tells the others as much.

“Yeah, I forget you’re an outsider in this,” Jesus says and shrugs. “The Queen of the Depths is a cruise liner. She has two possible routes. In spring, she goes from Los Angeles to here and back. In winter, from Boston to Europe. You could probably fund a year of research with one ticket to either of those cruises.”

“Still, we benefit from The Queen docking in Virginia Beach,” Ezekiel explains, “because the guests want to see the aquariums. We’re booked full on those days.”

“I see,” Rick says. “Thanks for uh, being patient with me? And sorry for not knowing this stuff.”

“Ah, you’ll learn,” Eric says with a smile. “You’ll be one of us in no time, you’ll see. The Institute absorbs people like that.”

“Okay, concentrate, guys,” Carol demands. “I know it’s very late and we’re all tired, but Daryl may be in trouble, orca or no orca, and we need to get our shit together. Yes?”

“Language, love,” Ezekiel admonishes her, but rolls his eyes fondly when Carol simply gives him a withering look.

“I’m looking at the scheduled route plan of The Queen, and you know what? It actually seems to fit,” Jesus announces. He puts his phone next to the display screen, and lo and behold, the path drawn by the blinking dot of the tracker definitely looks like part of the planned route of the cruise liner. 

“Why would Daryl end up on The Queen of the Depths, though? And how?” Carol asks, shaking her head. 

“Well he certainly didn’t swim,” Tara mutters darkly.

Despite himself, despite the gravity of the situation, Rick chuckles. He’s not the only one. Jesus snickers into his hand and Aaron lets out a surprised huff of laughter. Eric grins, and even Carol smiles and rolls her eyes. 

“I don’t think it really matters how he found his way to the ship,” Ezekiel decides finally. “For all we know, Porter could have taken him on a motorboat. The question is, how should we proceed? The ship will be in Virginia Beach tomorrow… I mean, today about noon. Should we attempt to intercept it before the scheduled time, or are we to await its arrival and try to get on board once it’s here?”

“Intercept,” Rick says immediately, and both Carol and Eric back him up.

Aaron, who was already opening his mouth to say  _ wait,  _ closes it and sighs. Jesus pats him on the back in a comforting manner, and Ezekiel shakes his head with barely concealed amusement. 

“That’s what I thought you would decide,” he admits. “We will need help to accomplish such a feat, though. Luckily, I know of a man who can help us.”

“You’re gonna say Abe, aren’t you, boss? Abe and his old tub?” Tara asks with a grimace.

“What you’re calling an  _ old tub,  _ young lady, is actually a very fast ship. Abraham bought it off an ex-smuggler out of Mexico Bay. The previous owner went a little overboard with the modifications. I think it’s illegal,” Ezekiel informs them in a conspiratorial tone.

“Great. I hope the Coast Guard doesn’t catch us, then,” Tara replies with exaggerated sarcasm.

“They won’t,” Ezekiel assures her. “Abraham’s ship can outrun any vessel the Coast Guard own.”

Rick decides he doesn’t want to ask how Ezekiel knows that. There’s a dangerous sort of glint in the man’s eyes, one Rick only saw in the eyes of men talking about fast cars and their engine specifications. Apparently, even marine biologists get excited about engines, as long as they’re installed in the right sort of vessel.

This late at night, Rick doesn’t really expect they’ll be able to set out soon, but as it turns out, Carol knows how to convince big burly men to do her bidding even by only talking to them on the phone. In less than half an hour, a party made up of himself, Carol - obviously, - Eric, Jesus, Aaron and, of course, Abraham Ford, boards the small but surprisingly sturdy ship named  _ Mother Dick.  _

And fuck. It really is damn fast, as it turns out very soon.

“Here,” Eric says, handing Rick a life vest which he quickly puts on. He’s the only one who needs it, apparently, or maybe all the others are fearless idiots who aren’t afraid of falling into the dark ocean beneath them. Even without the monsters of Rick’s imagination, he’s plenty scared, so the vest is a life saver in more ways than one.

“Thanks for not saying anything back there,” Eric adds, smiling at Rick kindly. “I know it was probably only because you were having a heart attack, but still. Thanks. Carol would’ve probably torn me apart, just to check if I had any livers in my digestive system.”

“I wasn’t having a heart attack,” Rick protests meekly. Denise gave him another dose of that drug she administered earlier, in a pill this time instead of an injection, before they left. His chest feels fine. It aches dully, but only in that afterthought sort of way. Like it knows it should and is only doing it out of a sense of obligation. “I wouldn’t have said anything regardless. Just… clarify something for me, okay? Did you ever attack Daryl?”

Eric looks away, ashamed. “It wasn’t my intention to attack him,” he replies. “I wanted to reveal myself, but I didn’t take into account that he’d instinctively fear me in the water. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just wanted to stop him from leaving. Needless to say, that didn’t go over well.”

Rick shakes his head. “How come you managed to hide it from him for ten whole years?” He asks incredulously. “Wouldn’t he like, sense you or something? He thought he could sense others like him.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” Eric says. “He  _ thinks  _ he can, but he never actually met any other sharks. And I’m different from a shark, anyway. Of course, he’d recognize me instantly in the water - he did, actually, like I said… I never once got in the water when he could see or sense me. I don’t think Daryl ever saw me swimming. Saltwater reveals our true nature. We can’t hide when we swim.”

“So… what’s with your interest in sharks?” Rick asks. He’s aware he’s like a kid playing twenty questions, but now that he has the opportunity, he can’t seem to contain his curiosity. It’s like when he found out about Daryl, more or less: his inquisitive nature pushes him forward to learn more and more and  _ more.  _

Eric chuckles. “I just like sharks,” he says simply. “I always have. When I was a boy, I wished I was a shark instead. My father wasn’t very pleased. He was more of a… let’s say, traditional type. Saw sharks as snacks, at best,” he frowns. “I don’t think he ever met a human-shark hybrid, though. I hope not.”

“So your father was… the same thing you are, yes?” Rick asks. 

“Both my parents were. And my two sisters,” Eric replies. “I haven’t spoken to them in years, though. I’m not a part of that pod anymore. They didn’t accept my  _ deviation,  _ so I left.”

When he notices Rick’s confused expression, he clarifies: “Homophobia isn’t exclusive to pureblood humans, Rick.”

“Oh. That’s stupid,” Rick declares immediately.

“Yes,” Eric agrees. “Any other questions before we’re inevitably interrupted?”

_ Hundreds,  _ Rick thinks, but shakes his head. “Just one,” he decides. “What’s up with you, Aaron and Jesus?”

Eric actually looks surprised, like he thought nobody would notice there was anything suspicious going on. He licks his lips and says, “It’s… well, complicated? I mean, I’m not an expert on my species, but I only ever saw us being monogamous before. I don’t know what to tell you. I love them. I’m in love with them. Both of them,” he concludes. 

Rick smiles in silent encouragement, because even though he can’t imagine loving more than one person the way he loves Daryl - there’s no space in his soul for anyone else but Daryl, it feels like - he can’t really begrudge anybody their own happiness. Regardless of how it is achieved. As long as nobody is hurt in the process, who is Rick to judge?

He likes how open-minded he’s become since he became a writer. He used to be more on the Republican side of things as a younger man. Or maybe that was just Shane, and Rick didn’t want to lose his friend so he went along with opinions that weren’t his? Doesn’t really matter anymore. Shane took himself out of Rick’s life long ago, and good riddance. Rick prefers himself the way he is now. 

“We’re getting close!” Abraham yells from the helm, and both Eric and Rick begin to prepare to disembark.

The fact is, Rick has no idea how they’re going to get on board of a cruise liner undetected. Sure,  _ Mother Dick  _ is swimming completely dark: no lights, no electronics, all so that it doesn’t exist on radars. This will help them get as close as possible, but Rick doesn’t know how they’re supposed to actually move from one vessel to the other. If this were an action movie, they’d create a diversion, an explosion somewhere maybe, and while the crew investigated the source of the diversion, they’d be able to get on board of The Queen. But this is not an movie, and Rick wonders if intercepting the cruise liner was really the best course of action. Maybe they should’ve waited for the ship to come to port.

Even as he thinks it, something inside of him rebels against the idea of leaving Daryl on board of The Queen for a moment longer than necessary.

“Here, take these,” Carol says and hands out a bunch of what look like really big pistols from a crate in the vessel’s hold. Rick examines the one he’s given and realizes it’s a portable harpoon launcher. He recognizes it because he investigated plausible weapons for the book, back when he still thought sharks were the monsters. He only thought these were a thing in like, video games and some action movies. Seems not, as he’s holding one. It’s heavy and quite difficult to handle, but if it works like Rick thinks it’s supposed to, it might just be the solution to the problem of  _ how _ .

“Now, we only have five of these, so don’t waste your shots,” Carol announces. “Once we start climbing, Abe’s gonna get out of here fast as lightning, so no dilly-dallying. If you miss, you’re out. If you fall, you’re on your own, so make sure you don’t fall. Especially you, Grimes, because so help me, I’m gonna kill you if you die before we get to Daryl.”

“I think you hate me,” Rick mutters, making a point of  _ not  _ looking down at the ocean around them. He’s not scared. He’s fucking terrified. At least he’s got the vest, and he’s pretty certain there aren’t any deadly killer whales waiting for him in the depths… but there are plenty of other ways this can end badly, and he can’t help but think about all of them at once.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Jesus says, patting him on the back. “Daryl said you used to be a cop. Cops do this all the time, don’t they?”

“No they don’t,” Rick replies, scandalized by the idea. “And I only was a cop for like, half a year.”

“Huh,” Jesus says. “Daryl failed to mention that. Oh well. Just point to the lowest deck, pull the trigger and hope for the best. If you miss, you miss. Nobody’s going to think badly of you.”

“You know, I like how you sound like we’re all action heroes except for Rick,” Aaron points out. “I’m not an action hero. Am I allowed to miss, too?”

“No,” Jesus informs him simply, and there’s an awful lot of amusement in his voice considering the situation. “You killed me in paintball twenty times out of twenty. You miss, I’ll shove that harpoon up your-”

“Boys,” Carol snaps. “Shut up and concentrate. We’ll be in position in seven minutes, am I right, Abe?”

“Six minutes, thirty seconds,” Abraham corrects her. “And can I just say how I love all you crazy people? Because you’re all batshit insane if you think it’s gonna work!”

“Not helpful!” Carol exclaims, glaring in the direction of the man who doesn’t see it anyway in the dark. 

Abraham laughs, clearly not intimidated by her glare. “How’s that for helpful: you guys pull off this shit, y’all are invited to my steakhouse for an all you can eat. Food’s on me. Even Daryl’s!”

Six minutes is a long time to wait when you’re tense like a virgin bride before her wedding night. Rick wishes it was just some terrible sex the night had in store for him instead of the potential for a horrible death, but hell. Daryl is waiting for him on that Godforsaken cruise liner, and fuck him with a damn  _ harpoon  _ if he doesn’t do everything in his power to save his man. Even if it scares the shit out of him.

“Okay, guys, get ready,” Carol calls when the immense white ship is so close it almost seems they can touch it just by reaching their hands overboard. They’ve taken a route around the cruise liner in order to approach it from behind. They’re going to be climbing the right side of the ship, the starboard or whatever it’s called. From up close, the difference in sizes between Abraham’s old smuggling vessel and the luxury cruiser is impossible to describe in words. Jesus nudges Rick and points to a railing on the lowest deck. 

“Point there, hope for the best,” he says, and Rick swallows against the bile raising in his throat, then nods and prays to whatever deity might be listening. 

When Carol calls, “Now!”, he pulls the trigger on the launcher. With wide eyes, he watches as his harpoon-anchor thing shoots through the air and misses the railing by a long range. Disappointment doesn’t even begin to settle in his stomach - he doesn’t even have the chance to hate himself - before Carol urgently pulls the launcher from his hands and pushes a line of rope into his grip instead.

She yells into his face, “GO!” and shoves him towards the port. Rick looks at her, confused, and Carol shouts, “Go now, Grimes! He needs you there!”

Nodding, Rick tightens his grip on the rope and jumps overboard towards the cruise liner. There’s no time for overthinking, there’s not even time enough to be scared anymore; he grips the rope tight and begins to climb as soon as his feet hit the starboard of the liner. As soon as he reaches the level of the deck, multiple hands grab at him and pull him on board. He struggles for a moment before he realizes it’s all familiar faces:

Eric, Aaron and Jesus all made it safely, too. 

“Carol’s not coming,” he says, then coughs at the dryness in his mouth. Only now that he’s actually sort of safe again is he able to process what they all just did. Fuck. It’s… fuck. Abraham is right. They’re crazy. Clinically  _ fucking  _ insane.

Eric unhooks the harpoons and throws them overboard along with the ropes. The splash they make is easily covered up by the noise of the steam engines working at full speed, and nobody bothers them for the time being. Jesus pats Rick on the back with a smile that’s meant to be comforting but is rather condescending. Aaron looks worried.

“Ditch the vest,” he says when they get ready to move. 

“What?” Rick asks, frowning.

“It’s neon yellow. Everyone will see it from miles away,” the man explains.

“He’s got a point,” Eric agrees. “I promise, no matter what, I won’t let you drown.”

With a heavy sigh, worried but nevertheless slightly reassured by Eric’s promise, Rick unhooks the latches on the vest and puts it in an enclosure behind a potted plant. Maybe he’ll have the chance to grab it again later, if he’s lucky. After all, he’s been plenty lucky over the last sixteen hours or so.

The problem is, once they got on the ship, they’re not sure where exactly they should go. If Carol had an idea, she didn’t tell anyone else, and now she’s not with them. Jesus checks his phone, but obviously the mobile data network doesn’t work this far into the ocean. They only have themselves to rely on.

“Hey,” Aaron says very, very softly as they walk aimlessly but sneakily across the deck towards one of the entrances to a staircase. “I know this would be surreal, I mean, nobody’s that lucky, but… Isn’t that Porter?” He points towards a man standing at the end of the deck, wrapped in a blanket and drinking something from a big green mug.

“I’ll be damned,” Jesus mutters, wide-eyed in disbelief. “That’s him.”

“Come on,” Eric says, and they break into a run.

Eugene Porter definitely didn’t expect to be ambushed by a ragtag group of very desperate scientists (and an equally desperate writer), but even if he did expect them, he still would’ve gone down easily. Rick can easily tell that the man has no idea what to do in a fight. He flails about, tries to make noise but is thwarted when Jesus takes off his beanie hat, crumples it into a ball and shoves it inside the guy’s mouth, all in movements faster than the damn lightning. When he realizes he’s got no chance to escape, Porter stops thrashing about and lets the assailants lead him back to the enclosure behind that potted plant. 

“Where’s Daryl?” Rick asks as soon as Aaron says the coast is clear.

Porter’s eyes widen and his eyes dart from Rick to the others and back. “Hmmphhhmmh,” he says. 

Eric rolls his eyes and removes the makeshift gag. “Again. But if you scream, I’ll bite out your liver. I know exactly where to find it,” he threatens.

“Interesting threat, Doctor Raleigh, very interesting. I shall want to speak to you at a later date to inquire about its doubtlessly fascinating origins,” Porter says. He doesn’t scream, though, and even though he looks at Rick when he talks next, he keeps stealing uncertain glances at Eric. 

“As for Mr. Dixon, I assure you, he is safe in our care. He is in no need of any rescue attempts, if this is indeed what it is, because he is with us of his own free will.”

“Bullshit,” Rick snaps. “Tell me where he is.”

“If he’s with you willingly, he’ll tell us so and we’ll leave,” Aaron adds reasonably.

“I am afraid I cannot allow you to speak to Mr. Dixon at this time,” Porter protests. “He is currently occupied, and-”

“Listen, I don’t care about a single word coming outta your mouth that isn’t telling me how to find Daryl,” Rick says very firmly. His voice goes to a low register he didn’t know he was capable of, so low that he’s practically growling. “The way I see it, you have to make a choice right now. Either you tell me where my mate is… or I bite your goddamn throat out.”

“You… you are the one,” Porter squeaks. “I… I was not aware! You should have started by telling me you were his chosen mate! I would never come between two shark mates. Never. Please. I will show you. I will lead you to him!”

Rick nods, and watches as Jesus and Aaron pull Porter to his feet. The man doesn’t attempt to run away and, true to his word, he begins to show them the way. They go past the entrance they saw earlier, down a staircase, through what looks like a cargo deck and past a few large containers. Behind one of them is a door that’s mostly concealed by a thick layer of heating panels. Eugene removes the panels, opens the door with a keycard, and leads Rick and the others inside what looks to be a fully stocked laboratory inside a luxury cruise liner.

There are two tanks they can see, both really small, about the height of a ten-year old child. One is empty from what Rick can gather, and there’s a dark shape in the other; he squints to try to make out what it is, and then his eyes widen when his brain catches up to his vision:

A baby. It’s a damn human baby.

He’s about to say something, ask what the fuck is going on, when a familiar voice calls from another part of the lab which appears to be divided into two separate rooms. “Eugene, I thought you weren’t coming until seven? What, you couldn’t sleep again?”

“No, sir. I brought visitors,” Porter calls back.

Negan steps out into view, and he only seems surprised for a second at the sight of his unexpected guests. When his eyes fall upon Rick, he takes in the shock on Rick’s face and he grins, revealing a mouth full of pointy serrated teeth.

“Why, hello there, Rick,” he says in a way that’s much too friendly not to be mocking. “So nice of you and your friends to join us. Eugene… call the others. I think we’re gonna have a big ol’e fucking party!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another trope that I really love: when characters in a genre movie say they're not characters in a movie of that genre. Action heroes saying life isn't an action movie, characters in a rom-com saying real relationships don't work like in rom-coms, stuff like that. Of course I had to use this trope here.   
Please don't tell me how unrealistic Rick and co's interception attempt is, I know it is! But since it's a story about people who are sharks and killer whales and all that, I feel like taking liberties with realism isn't really a problem ;)
> 
> Also: How do you like the Eric plot twist? I came up with it in January (it wasn't planned in the beginning, but I read the story over and it worked, so I used it). At first I thought, am I evil enough to make Eric the bad guy? But then I realized, "why not make the orca thing totally irrelevant to the main plot? That would be an interesting twist!" Is it interesting? Do you guys like it? Could you see it coming before the latest couple of chapters?
> 
> Ah, and a small warning: the next chapter should be up on Wednesday, but it miiiight be slightly late. Why? Because it's a full-on action chapter, and even if some of you say I'm good at writing those, I'll be real honest here: I'm not. Action sequences fight me all the way, and they're damn difficult for me to write, and I'm never happy with them. So. Yeah. Might be later than Wednesday, but definitely no later than Friday.
> 
> Okay nobody reads these notes anyway. Mags out ;)


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the added tags. They're all for this chapter:  
threat of sexual abuse, major character injury, minor/background character death.
> 
> If you are triggered by any of these, please consider skipping this chapter altogether. Its repercussions will be referenced in future chapters.
> 
> Also I'm uploading three chapters today because I'm too anxious about leaving you guys with cliffhangers again. Remember, this story will have a happy ending.

Aaron leaps at Porter, but the guy proves surprisingly fast for his build; he manages to sidestep and press a red button on the wall. At first it doesn’t seem to do anything, but within moments, there are sounds of footsteps approaching from multiple directions. Raising the alarm doesn’t save Porter from a well-aimed punch, but the damage is already done.

Rick stares at Negan, and he doesn’t know what to think. He called this man just this afternoon, asked him for help to get back from Atlanta. To find Daryl. And Negan said he was on the other side of the States. He lied. He lied about a lot of things, it seems.

“What- why?” Rick asks softly, voice laced with disbelief and disappointment. And then, hardened because he decides he doesn’t care about the first two: “Where’s Daryl?”

“Aaand there he goes,” Negan groans, rolling his eyes. “Ever since you met that guy, it’s just been Daryl this, Daryl that, nothing but Daryl. You ever shut up about your damn hick boyfriend? How about a nice,  _ Hi Negan, what a surprise to see you?  _ Or even,  _ Ooooh Negan, what beautiful big teeth you have!  _ But no, all you care about is your precious little Daryl. I’m seriously hurt!”

Rick glares at him darkly. “Where is he?” He presses on. 

“Take a wild guess,” Negan replies, shrugging.

That’s when a group of people all dressed in what looks to be full body armor arrive in the lab. They’re all wearing helmets with shaded glass visors, so their faces are impossible to see. There are maybe twenty of them, mostly men and a couple of women, and they outnumber Rick’s group five-to-one. Unlike Rick’s group, they’re all armed, too. They seem to have no qualms about pointing firearms at four unarmed civilians.

“This is not what I signed up for,” Aaron groans, and hisses when both Eric and Jesus hit him with their elbows. “What? Come on, we’re not some superheroes to fight a supervillain’s army of evil!”

“Less comic books, love,” Eric murmurs. He sounds vaguely apprehensive, but definitely not as worried as he should be. 

“Now Rick,” Negan says pleasantly, ignoring them. “I suggest you and your little friends get down on your knees and beg me nicely. I might spare them if you’re really good at begging. Obviously, I don’t want to harm _you,_ specifically. You owe me a few books, don’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Rick spits out. He doesn’t move in case Negan’s men are trigger-happy, but his whole body is just itching to leap into action. Frantically, he’s trying to remember anything from his brief martial arts training at the Academy that might be of use here, but most of what the instructors used to tell them all came down to one thing: run if you can, don’t engage, certainly  _ do not attack first. _

Negan leers at him, and Rick shudders as he recognizes the expression; he caught Negan look at him like this before, once or twice, but he’d chosen to ignore it in order to  _ not make it weird.  _ It certainly is weird right now. Alarming, even. It’s a measuring look. Appreciative.  _ Hungry. _ Eerily similar to how Daryl started to look at him after the two of them figured out how to have sex, but whereas Daryl’s gaze made him hot all over, Negan’s… Negan’s makes him feel sick.

“Oh my, such foul language,” Negan says, shaking his head. He sighs in a mockery of sadness. “I would happily fuck you here and now, sweet buns, don’t think I wouldn’t,” he assures, looking at Rick again, making him feel like he’s a piece of meat. “But we’re kinda in the middle of something. Let’s talk it out like civilized people, and then we can discuss other matters-”

“Just let Daryl go and I’ll forget this ever happened,” Rick suggests, glaring at the- man? Shark? For fuck’s sake. His publishing agent. The guy Rick thought was his friend. For fuck’s sake, he let Negan play with his son! And he talked about Daryl a lot when they spoke on the phone, that’s true. Damn. Is it because of him that Negan found Daryl? Did he unwittingly lead Negan to his mate? And why the hell would the guy even need to kidnap other sharks?...

“You’re not being cute right now,” Negan says with another long-suffering sigh. “Let me give you an incentive. Either you kneel  _ right now,  _ or one of your little jackass friends over there,” he indicates to where Aaron, Jesus and Eric are behind Rick, “one of them dies. Now what will it be?”

Rick hesitates - he can’t very well risk the lives of others so carelessly - but before he manages to make up his mind, he hears a yelp and then a commotion breaks out. He dares throw a cautious look over his shoulder and sees one of the guards of Negan’s militia on the ground, and Jesus grabbing his gear. Aaron is in the middle of knocking out another armed guy, and Eric is off to the side fighting off two at once with nothing but a screwdriver. 

“No, no, no, this is  _ not  _ how this is going to go,” Negan exclaims, and he grabs Rick by the front of his shirt. Rick’s training from years before kicks in; he moves before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing, and he lands a hard kick to Negan’s groin. Apparently, shark or not, a kick to the nuts is just as effective on any guy: Negan lets go of Rick and crumples to the ground, wheezing. 

Since Negan’s not a threat for the moment, Rick uses the element of surprise to help Aaron and Jesus who, even with their newly acquired weapons, are clearly overwhelmed. There hasn’t been a single shot yet, which is a good thing, but Rick quickly realizes bullets won’t be needed because the guards are equipped with tasers.

“Don’t let them get you with that,” he warns unnecessarily. He realizes how redundant the warning really was when he notices Jesus rolling his eyes.

“No shit, Sherlock,” the young man mutters, right before he punches one of the guards in the solar plexus. 

He’s frighteningly efficient in a fight, it turns out, especially when he gets a hold of a taser of his own from one of the fallen guards. He certainly looks like those comic book heroes. It helps that wherever Negan recruited the members of his militia, he definitely went with the cheapest option. The guys are uncoordinated, they don’t seem to know how to deal with people attacking them, and they let Jesus, Aaron, Rick and especially Eric engage them in one-to-one altercations instead of using their numbers to their advantage. It’s like they were hired just to look scary, not to be an actual force to be reckoned with. 

_ Or, _ Rick thinks,  _ like they don’t want to fight at all. _

Rick notices a small shark emblem tattooed on one of the guys’ forearms, and he frowns, but doesn’t dwell on it. He winces when the guard grabs him by the hair and pulls, then starts dragging him out of the fray of battle. Rick calls out for help, but the others are busy with their own opponents and can’t get to him. He tries to thrash against the hold, to free himself, but it’s relentless. 

“Stop yer fuckin’ thrashin’, stupid bastard,” the guard spits out and throws Rick against the wall. Rick groans when the back of his head hits the metal panelling, but he immediately scrambles to his feet, ready to take on the assailant even though his vision is swimming just a little. He’s got to help the others. He’s got to find Daryl.

“Ain’t gonna hurt ya, dumb prick,” the guard hisses. “You Daryl’s lil’ bitch, yeah?”

“What?” Rick asks, blinking, because the question momentarily throws him off.

“No time for yer damn questions, man,” the guard says, “you gotta go now. Daryl’s there,” he points to a door with a sign claiming  _ No Entry. _ The door Negan came through, before. 

“Why,” Rick wants to inquire, but he agrees with the guard: no time. He shakes his head to clear it - he really did hit the wall hard, - and heads towards the door. 

“Hey,” the guard calls after him. When Rick looks back at him, the guard takes off his helmet. He’s a shark, clearly: his teeth are pointy and serrated, clearly visible even though his mouth’s closed… would be closed. His upper lip is missing, like something bit it off, or cut it off. There are burns and cuts all over the man’s face, but his blue eyes are clear and sharp as he looks at Rick without blinking.

“You get my lil’ bro outta here, ya hear me?” He demands. His voice is coarse; he sounds like talking hurts him. When Rick doesn’t immediately reply, he growls. “Ya hear me? Get Daryl outta here!”

“Yes,” Rick breathes out, “Yes, I will, I promise,” he assures.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to promise what you can’t deliver, Rick?” Asks Negan, coming up behind the guard all of a sudden, and before Rick can do anything other than hiss out a warning, Negan sinks his teeth into the back of the guard’s neck. The man doesn’t even make a sound; his mouth falls open in a silent exclamation of - pain, surprise? - but that’s the only reaction he shows before Negan rips out chunks of his flesh and spine. 

The guard’s dead body crumples to the ground and Negan spits out the gore along with a couple of his own teeth. He licks his lips and makes a disgusted face, before he looks up at Rick. His mouth stretches into an eerie smile.

“See, this is what being nice gets me,” he says in a light tone, like he hasn’t just murdered someone in cold blood. “I keep ‘em alive after Eugene no longer has any use for them. I feed them, which isn’t an easy feat, let me tell you. They eat so much, it’s hard to keep up with the supply delivery. There are only so many homeless bums can go missing before cops all around start noticing things.”

“What?...” Rick asks, taking a step back. Is Negan saying… does he mean?...

“See, to a shark, you humans are mostly useless. We can’t eat you, because your meat gives us serious brain damage in addition to having so little nutrients, nobody in their right mind would even bother. But it’s highly addictive,” Negan explains, shrugging. “No better way to keep the little bitches tied to me. Starve them out, then throw them scraps of human flesh, and voila! A damn good little army, willing to fight for me so I’d feed them again.”

“You’re a monster,” Rick whispers, horrified.

“Oh, let’s not be so fucking dramatic,” Negan says, scoffing. “Now. Are you gonna kneel and beg for mercy? It’s your last chance. I’m kinda losing patience, what with stupid old Merle betraying me all ‘cause I broke a promise.”

Rick narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know how Jesus, Aaron and Eric are doing, if they’re even still alive, but he can’t help them from where he is. There is still fighting going on, from what he can hear, but at some point, somebody must’ve hit a switch to dim the lights and he can barely see anything behind Negan. Which means both he and his friends, save maybe Eric, are at a disadvantage: sharks can see in the dark much better than humans. Can orcas see in the dark? Shit, Rick hopes so. Eric might be their only hope to get through this.

“Rick, please don’t make me mad,” Negan demands. “I really,  _ really  _ don’t wanna have to feed my drones with you. Get on your knees, beg me nicely, and I’ll let you go home to your son. It’s the best deal you’re gonna get.”

Rick looks at him, a tentative,  _ stupid  _ plan already forming in his head. He pretends he’s considering it. He makes a thoughtful expression, hoping he looks like he’s serious about maybe accepting Negan’s terms. He thinks, if he times this right, he may have a shot. Maybe not at defeating Negan, but at least at buying some time for Eric and the others to finish dealing with the militia. With that in mind, he bites his lower lip - sucks it in his mouth in a way he  _ knows _ makes him look particularly sultry, because he practiced the look in the mirror back when he thought he’d actually need to try very hard to seduce Daryl, - and he lowers his eyes submissively to the ground. 

“Alright, you win,” he whispers. 

“That’s a good boy,” Negan praises, and Rick can hear the self-satisfied grin in his voice. It makes his blood boil, but he doesn’t let himself react.  _ Steady does it, _ he reminds himself.  _ Can’t screw it up. I’m doing this for Daryl. _

Slowly, like he’s still uncertain - or scared, maybe - he takes a step towards Negan and drops to his knees in front of him. He doesn’t look up, not yet. To make himself look even more defeated and, in addition, more appealing to a predator like Negan, he rests his arms behind his back, crossing them at the wrists. He knows what this must seem like. The position is both submissive and sexual, and he thinks he can hear Negan’s breathing rate increase even through the sounds of fighting in the dark.

He certainly can see the tent in the front of Negan’s jeans, which makes him feel dirty. He’ll need a long shower after this. A long shower with Daryl. 

“Fuck, yes, this is good, Rick,” Negan coos, taking a step closer. Then another, and another, until he’s right in front of Rick, so close Rick’s face is all but pressed against the bulge in his pants. He weaves a hand into Rick’s hair, and Rick hisses because his scalp is still sensitive, but he doesn’t protest when Negan strokes the back of his neck, urging him to lean in and nuzzle his crotch. 

There’s bile rising in Rick’s throat and he’s worried for a second Negan can smell his disgust, but if he can, it only seems to spur him on. Rick risks a look up, thinking of  _ how beautiful Daryl is, how amazing, how sexy,  _ and the effect his bedroom eyes have on Negan is instantaneous:

“Fuck,” he grunts, and lets go of Rick’s hair to fumble with the opening of his pants.

That’s the cue Rick has been waiting for: he springs up to his feet with his right arm held up for protection, and it hits Negan square in the jaw. The impact is enough to make his head roll back for a second. Long enough for Rick to do what he’s been planning: he sinks his teeth in the soft tissue of Negan’s throat, right at the jugular, and bites down with all the force he has in his puny human jaws.

The man yells and grabs him by the back of the shirt, tries to pull him away, but Rick plasters himself to his front like a Goddamn thirsty vampire. He grabs the collar of Negan’s jacket with his left hand, wraps his legs around Negan’s hips, and doesn’t let go even when Negan pushes him forcefully into the wall like he’s hoping the impact will unlatch the assailant. All the while, Negan is cursing, attempting to throw him off. It’s difficult to hold on; the metallic taste of blood is repulsive as it fills Rick’s mouth and flows down his throat, almost making him gag. The skin at Negan’s throat is less rough than the rest of him - same as with Daryl - but it’s still rougher than human skin, and Rick feels it scrape at his lips as the man-shark-whatever frantically swallows gulps of air.

“Motherfucking little bitch,” Negan rasps, thrashing wildly, and when Rick still doesn’t let go, he grabs at Rick’s right arm, the one currently protecting Rick’s head from a mouth full of sharp teeth - and he bites at the wrist.

Rick screams, and his mind goes blank for a moment. The pain is- It’s blinding, but it’s also too short, a second and it’s gone, and Rick looks up through the haze of tears - why, why is he crying? - he looks at his arm, and his hand, and it’s  _ not there,  _ his hand is not there _ .  _ In disbelief, he tries to move it, to move his fingers, but there are no fingers to move, no nothing, just a mess of torn flesh and blood and, oh God, is that bone sticking out where the hand is supposed to be, is that?...

“No no no,” he whimpers, sagging against Negan who holds him upright like a protective lover.

“I had to,” Negan says, and he even sounds a little apologetic, but Rick isn’t listening. He’s staring at his - at the stump, and he doesn’t… he doesn’t understand. This was not. Not supposed to happen. He’s. What? This. Fuck. It hurts, or does it? How can it hurt when there’s nothing  _ there _ to hurt?

“No,” he whispers, and looks up, wide-eyed, at Negan’s face. Bloodied, terrible face, and teeth, so many teeth, all the teeth. His vision is swimming, suddenly all he can see is teeth, and he screams, but he’s not terrified, no, he’s not, even though he should be. He’s angry. He’s so angry, and he doesn’t understand, and it’s that anger that fuels him when he lunges forward with whatever’s left of his strength and once again buries his face in the wound of Negan’s throat, tearing out bits and pieces with his teeth, and he’s weak but he’s not  _ completely weak,  _ he can still fight, he can still do damage, he can-

Negan throws him off, and Rick’s back collides with something - a water tank - the tank with the baby inside. The glass cracks, and Rick thinks  _ no, don’t hurt it,  _ but he can’t make himself move. He slides down to the floor and sort of sits slumped down, looking at his missing hand, choking on the blood and sinew and meat he swallowed. He sees, sort of, Negan’s boots coming closer, but he’s got no strength left in him to so much as flinch away when a hand buries itself in his hair and  _ pulls.  _ He groans painfully, and he throws up all that gore all over himself and Negan’s shirt when the man-shark- _ monster  _ leans in.

“Oh, Rick,” Negan says. He sounds coarse, like Rick’s assault damaged something in his throat that makes his voice work. Rick’s insanely proud of this accomplishment, even if it did nothing in the end. 

“If you were a shark, I would think you were courting me, what with all the biting,” Negan murmurs and places a surprisingly gentle kiss on top of Rick’s head.

“Fuck you,” Rick whispers. He can’t help but shiver - in fear, in disgust, he doesn’t know; because he fought, and he lost, and now he’s dying, isn’t he. Bleeding out, and Negan’s got him at his mercy, and even after all this, Negan’s still acting like he  _ wants  _ Rick, and. Rick doesn’t even have the energy to be repulsed anymore. He’s so tired. Everything hurts.

“I wish things were different,” Negan says, still in that soft tone like he’s trying to calm a small animal. “It’s my fault, I guess. I should’ve made you mine a long time ago. Hell, I think Lucille wouldn’t even mind. She likes you so much. But I wanted to remain faithful to my wife, and I had to oversee this operation here, didn’t I? I just never expected a damn hick would snatch you away from me. Don’t worry though, Rick. You’re safe now. I’m going to keep you, so just sit back for a moment while I deal with this fucking mess. Everything will be alright.”

_ Nothing’s alright,  _ Rick thinks, panic rising within him, because he’s too weak to try to escape as a damn madman is, what, proclaiming his feelings for him? This is surreal, and disturbing, and he just wants it all to end. Just end. It hurts so much. Everything. A hand he doesn’t have anymore. His mouth, his chest. His head, his throat. He feels like he’s dying, no, he  _ knows _ he’s dying, and for the first time he thinks it’s a good thing. Negan can’t have him when he’s dead. Negan can’t hurt him anymore when he’s dead.

Daryl… Daryl will forgive him, eventually.

Before his eyes slide closed and he loses consciousness, he thinks he sees a lithe and yet immense silhouette in the dark, and Negan’s suddenly not on him anymore, and there’s a scream filled with terror and anguish, and someone is running, and there’s a glint of something - teeth, too many teeth, teeth everywhere - and then, then. Then everything goes black.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the chapter contains violence and minor/background character death.

Daryl didn’t even know he fell asleep until he’s woken from his shallow slumber by a loud commotion. There are voices beyond the - walls, door? Outside of the lab, nevertheless - and he looks around as much as the position of his tank allows. There’s nobody there, not even the stocky science guy Eugene. Wasn’t Negan just outside a minute ago? Talking and talking and never shutting up, like he was really loving the sound of his own voice? Well now he’s not there. Daryl thinks he must’ve slept for longer than he initially assumed.

He looks at his arm and notices the torn wound on his shoulder is no longer there, replaced by a thick, jagged scar that’s still red around the edges. Means whatever healing acceleration agent Eugene added to that drip-thingy is working like a charm. Daryl curses inwardly at the fact he’s gonna have to re-break his arm later in order to get someone to set it properly. Damn science dudes and their freaky little experiments. Couldn’t come at a worse time. What’s it supposed to accomplish anyway? Daryl’s no scientist, but he knows some scientists, and hell if he can see any merit in what Eugene has been doing to him so far.

On the bright side, he realizes his hands on the outside of the tank can sort of move; or at least, his fingers respond to commands from his brain. Which is somewhat promising, but maybe not as optimistic as he hoped because at this rate, it’s going to take him like,  _ weeks  _ to build up enough strength to break out of here. He doesn’t have weeks. He’s got maybe days. Hours, maybe, depending how long he slept. Not that long if he wants to get out of here while the damn ship is still parked in Virginia Beach. 

Damn, but are those noises outside loud. Are there people arguing? Screaming? He can’t tell. The source of the sounds isn’t close enough to Eugene’s clever little device, so the voices reach him completely distorted by the water. For a second there, he even thinks he can hear Rick, which is obviously impossible. He sighs and watches the bubbles in the water as he breathes out. He reasons with himself that he just misses Rick, and his mind is coming up with ways to compensate for that. That’s why he’s hearing Rick’s anguished screams in some random noises which might not be human-made at all. Maybe Eugene is watching a horror movie in another room. Maybe a piece of machinery is acting up and producing weird sounds. It’s a big ship, after all. Lots of shit could break at any time. 

There’s no way he’s actually hearing Rick screaming, he tells himself firmly. Still, his heart rate picks up anyway, and he bites on his lower lip, and he worries. Because some of that really does sound an awful lot like Rick, even through the distortion.

And then another voice sounds like Negan. Negan in pain, to be precise, and that one Daryl can’t help but hope is real.

He tries to move his arms, but they’re really securely held in those insulated holes. He feels like every time he tries to shift, the rubber insulation cuts off a bit more of his blood circulation. There’s a chance he’ll be able to break out later, when he’s stronger and the tetro-something-toxin Eugene mentioned earlier is fully out of his system. Tranquilizers, he can take. His body goes through them real quick. That time when his body was almost ripped in half from Henry’s jaws, he remembers Aaron wanted to sew at least some of the wound shut so that Daryl’s guts didn’t spill into the water before he healed, and Professor King decided Daryl had to be put under for the procedure. They never got around to it because no dosage of tranquilizers was enough to knock Daryl out for longer than a few minutes at most. Eventually, his body healed itself on its own, so it didn’t matter in the end.

He thinks this might be his advantage. His mind is already much clearer than it was earlier when he had to listen to Negan list all the damn reasons he’s a fucking madman. No hazy vision, neither, and certainly no fuzziness to his thoughts. He can actually begin to plan, now. He can-

He hears the door open with an ominous whine, and then hurried footsteps, but they don’t sound like Negan and certainly not like Eugene. No, they sound somewhat familiar, and Daryl can’t quite contain his shock when he suddenly finds Eric standing in front of the tank. Because there’s no doubt it’s Eric, even though his normally impeccably styled hair is messy and sticking out in all directions, and both his face and clothes are covered in blood. Fuck. That’s a lot of blood; in some spots, it looks almost black as it soaks into the fabric of Eric’s shirt. Is he wounded? Did Negan do something to him?

“Found you,” Eric mutters to himself, relieved. He quickly removes the needle delivering the drip to Daryl’s system, and before Daryl has a chance to recover from his surprise, the scientist grabs a nearby chair, makes an arching swing, and throws it against the tank. The glass shatters, though none of the shards seem to hit Daryl, and the water spills all over the lab, leaving Daryl momentarily unable to breathe. He falls to the glass-filled bottom of the tank, choking on air, and then it’s over and he can breathe again, and looking up, he sees Eric offering him a hand.

“We need to hurry,” the man says urgently. 

“What’cha doin’ here,” Daryl tries to ask, but Eric shakes his head impatiently. 

Okay. It’s not the time for questions. Daryl gets that. He gets up with Eric’s help, and together they make a quick job of removing the stupid rubber things still stuck around Daryl’s arms, and he’s finally completely free. 

“We got to go. Paul and Aaron are getting us a lifeboat. We need to go now,” Eric says. 

“They’re here too?” Daryl asks, following the man towards the exit.

“Rick’s with us,” Eric says, and hesitates. “Daryl… He’s in a bad way.”

“What?” Daryl snaps. 

“Come on,” Eric grabs him by the forearm, and leads him outside of the lab. There’s another lab beyond the door, bigger, and it stinks of fear, and gore, and blood. Shark blood, human blood. Daryl can’t tell. He only knows there’s a lot of it. The stench is overwhelming his senses, making him wheeze, and Eric urges him on, muttering softly,  _ Come on, come on.  _

There’s another shattered tank in the bigger lab, and there’s a crumpled shape of something that might be a body next to it, and the floor is wet, but Daryl’s eyes barely register his surroundings as they zero in on his mate. Rick is sat against one of the walls. He’s deathly pale, and there’s not a part of him that isn’t covered in blood. His right forearm is wrapped in some cloth, but it’s bleeding through, and Daryl doesn’t need to look at it for long to realize it’s shorter than it should be. He kneels by his mate’s side, lifts a hand to touch him, but hesitates. If Rick’s dead… if he’s dead… 

Rick takes in a heaving breath, then moans faintly, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Daryl breathes out a sigh of relief. If Rick’s alive, then it’s okay. They can get him to a doctor, they can. Do things. Help him. Right? He looks at Eric for confirmation.

“We’ll do everything in our power, I promise,” Eric says, “but you’ve got to carry him. I can’t. He fights me when I try to touch him.”

Daryl nods and places a tentative hand on Rick’s arm. The man instantly relaxes into his touch, like he can somehow sense it’s Daryl touching him, and Daryl can’t be more grateful for the bond-thingy the two of them seem to maybe share. Without further ado, he picks Rick up, as careful as he can be, and cradles his mate against his chest. Rick whimpers, an expression of pain and distress, and Daryl whispers soft words of reassurance into his hair. He can smell how weak his mate is, how exhausted, how badly hurt, and it makes him want to  _ tear apart  _ whoever did this to Rick.  _ Negan,  _ he thinks darkly. 

Eric pushes him forward. 

“Come on, there,” he says, and they leave the bigger lab. Eric takes the lead, acting like he knows precisely where he’s going, and maybe he does, so Daryl follows without question. He groans when the salty ocean air hits his face once they reach a deck. Rick shivers, and Daryl wants to hug him tight to protect him from the breezy chill, but he knows it would do more harm than good. Instead, he presses another little kiss to the top of Rick’s head, and he is rewarded with a soft sigh which brushes against his collarbone. 

Jesus calls from the end of the deck, “We’re here!” 

Eric and Daryl move faster towards the source of the voice, and they find Jesus with Aaron and the stocky scientist. 

“Porter,” Eric snaps. He sounds dangerous, like Daryl’s never heard him sound before. 

“Calm down, love, he’s helping,” Aaron says softly. He’s holding a wet little bundle in his arms, wrapped in a bright yellow life jacket. 

“This is the vessel I spoke about,” Eugene says quickly, and pulls away a sheet of tarp to reveal a motorboat underneath. It’s placed on one of the elevators for lifeboats, and it seems big enough to fit five people on board. The Institute has one much like this, just more beaten up and older.

“And here is the ignition key,” Eugene adds. “In return, I only ask-”

“I know, not to mention your name so you can disappear. Fair warning, though, if we see you anywhere near Virginia Beach,” Jesus hisses, and Eugene shakes his head frantically.

“You shall never see me again, I promise!” He exclaims, holding his hands up defensively. 

Eric growls, another sound Daryl never thought he’d hear from the mild-mannered man. “We don’t have time for this,” he snaps. “Go on, on the boat!”

They get on board of the motorboat and Eugene turns on the mechanism to get it off the ship. It goes smoothly up to a certain point, and then all of a sudden, when they’re almost on the water and can’t see what’s going on up on the deck, they hear a scream from above, and the mechanism stops moving. 

Daryl looks up just in time to see a body fall from the deck and down into the waters below. He only saw it for a split second, but he knows - he’s absolutely certain - it was Eugene. And he wasn’t alive. Couldn’t be, with his neck doing… that. He doesn’t have the time to say anything, do anything, because just then, the mechanism starts moving again - in reverse. 

Above the whirring of the elevator’s gears, they all hear a voice, distorted with anger, hoarse,  _ pained,  _ but familiar, and terrifying, and dangerous: Negan. 

“You’re not getting away from me,” the madman calls after them. “You’ve got something of mine and  _ I’m not letting you take it!” _

“Fuck,” Aaron swears. He stands and passes his bundle to Jesus. “Hold her, I’m gonna… I know how to release the boat, here, we had this kinda tech on the Drifter,” he explains, referring to the research vessel he told Daryl he used to swim aboard back in his university days. He climbs the scaffolding of the elevator and begins to pull on something there, cursing under his breath. 

“Eric, a screwdriver,” he calls, and to Daryl’s surprise, Eric takes out a bloodied screwdriver out of his pocket, and hands it to his boyfriend. “God, you’re the most amazing thing in the world,” Aaron says and returns to work. The elevator mechanism moves slower upwards than it did down, which is the only reason he manages to do what he was trying to do. Finally, he straightens, wipes his forehead with his forearm, and throws the screwdriver back to Eric. He announces, “This is enough. Now I gotta push you off!”

“What? No!” Jesus protests. “Come on, man, get back here! I’ll do it,” he demands.

Aaron shakes his head. “No time, sweetheart. I’ll be fine, it’s not me he wants,” he says, and before anyone else can protest, he leans his back against the scaffolding and his legs against the side of the motorboat, and he  _ pushes.  _

Daryl doesn’t know how precisely it works, but he can hear wheels rolling and the boat moves down, and it tilts dangerously to the side for a second before -  _ crack! -  _ something breaks, and they’re falling, and then the motorboat hits the water surface. Somehow, it’s still in one piece when it lands, and Jesus is staring up where Aaron’s no longer visible on the scaffolding, and he can’t seem to make himself move. Eric takes the ignition key out of Jesus’ pocket and turns on the boat’s engine, and then they’re moving, fast, fast, leaving The Queen of the Depths behind. 

There’s a pool of blood already forming on the boat at Daryl’s feet. Rick is still bleeding, and his skin’s cold and clammy. He’s still breathing, but he’s no longer making noises. Daryl doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. He doesn’t like Rick being in pain, but at least when he was semi-conscious, at least to the degree that he made those soft, hurt noises, it was obvious he was alive. Now it’s not so obvious, and Daryl feels so helpless and terrified. He wants to worry about Aaron, too, but he doesn’t know how. His mate is shivering in his arms, or maybe it’s the motor engine rumbling, it’s hard to tell; and he’s still bleeding, and he’s dying. There’s no doubt about it. He’s dying, and Daryl knows he’s going to die too if Rick dies. He can’t live without him, he can’t. His Rick. His Rick who came for him, and it’s Daryl’s fault he got himself captured in the first place, so if Rick dies, it’s going to be because of him, and he can’t- he can’t think about this.

Jesus is still in some sort of a stupor, rocking the bundle in his arms like it’s a baby - it’s not a baby, is it? Why would he have a baby?... - and muttering something under his breath. Eric gives him worried looks, and didn’t Aaron call Jesus  _ sweetheart  _ just now, in front of Eric, and does that even matter? They need to be going faster, they need help, Rick needs help-

There’s a splash somewhere behind them, barely audible, but both Daryl and, for some reason, Eric, look immediately overboard. Nothing is visible in the dark water underneath the bubbling surface. Daryl breathes out, mentally berating himself for the paranoia - and then suddenly, the motorboat lurches and its movement slows. 

“Eric,” Jesus says urgently. “Eric, it’s him!” He sounds terrified. 

“That fucking bastard,” Eric mutters. He licks his lips, and visibly comes to a decision. He begins to undress, his jacket first, then his shirt, and he as he shakes it off, he looks at Jesus. “Get these guys to Denise, as fast as this thing will take you.”

“No, Eric, no,” Jesus whispers, eyes wide and already welling up with tears. He looks so young right now. “Please. Can’t lose you too.”

“You’re not losing anyone,” Eric assures him, and moves in for a very quick kiss. Before Jesus can say anything else, before Daryl can even think to ask what he’s just witnessed, Eric chucks his shoes, steps out of his pants, and jumps overboard.

Jesus just stares at the spot where the other man used to be for a second before he throws himself to the steering panel of the boat. He does something with his one free hand, presses something or pulls a lever; Daryl looks at where Eric just jumped, torn between holding Rick and wanting to jump after his friend, and suddenly, he sees something in the water. Two shapes, one larger, bulkier, and the other lithe and deft: but as he watches, the bulkier shape seems to be backing away as the lithe shape pursues, and suddenly, for a moment there, the lithe shape becomes  _ immense,  _ and the water turns red in the first light of dusk, and the motorboat shoots forward at full speed, leaving the underwater shapes behind-

It was an orca. For a moment there, before the motorboat moved, Daryl felt it: the same primordial dread that he remembers from that time a killer whale grabbed his leg as he swam. But Negan isn’t,  _ wasn’t _ an orca, he’s a shark, and that means… that means Eric…

“Daryl,” Rick whimpers against his chest. Daryl quickly looks down and sees his mate’s eyes are open. They’re bright and glassy, red-rimmed. He’s not fully conscious, or if he is, then he’s not really aware of where he is. Daryl’s not even sure Rick is seeing him.

“I found you,” Rick whispers, smiling. It’s the sort of bright smile that normally makes Daryl’s heart soar. Right now, it fills him with fear. Because this is too much like a goodbye, too much like Rick’s trying to bid him farewell, and Daryl’s not having it… He’s not… He can’t. His heart will explode if he loses Rick now.

“Rick,” he says, hoarse, anguished. 

“We’re almost there,” Jesus calls from the front of the boat.

“Rick, please, please don’t leave me,” Daryl begs, holding onto his mate’s fever-burning body. He wishes sharks had a god to pray to, but there isn’t one, so all he can do is pathetically beg Rick not to give up. Not to die. Not now when they’re so close to home, and safety. Not ever.

And then Rick takes in a shuddering breath, and exhales, and he stills completely.

“No, no, no,” Daryl sobs. “Rick, no, you can’t, please, Rick,” he begs. He feels a hand grabbing at him, but he doesn’t want to be grabbed, he needs Rick, he can’t, he’s, he doesn’t know what to do, he, Rick, he-

“Daryl!” Jesus calls his name harshly, and Daryl looks up at him through the haze of tears. 

“He’s breathing, he’s still breathing,” the man points out, and when Daryl looks at Rick for confirmation, he can indeed see his chest moving. It’s faint, but it’s there. He sobs again, repeating Rick’s name in relief so powerful he can’t hold it in. 

He’s still crying when they reach the dock by the Institute. There are already medics there, like somebody expected them, or maybe Jesus notified them, or even Aaron back on The Queen if Negan didn’t catch him. It doesn’t matter; what matters is that there are suddenly people trying to pry Rick out of Daryl’s embrace, and he growls and tries to hold on, but Carol is there and she speaks to him in soft words, and Daryl lets the medics take Rick into an ambulance. His whole body protests the separation from his mate - he can’t be away from Rick, not again, what if Rick needs him, what if they can’t save him and Daryl doesn’t get the chance to see him again, what if, what if. He tries to go after the ambulance as it drives off, carrying his mate away into the distance, he tries to follow it, but Professor King puts a hand on his bad shoulder and says something, and then Carol says something else, and their words are some cheesy nonsense about being okay and being safe and shit, and then Denise sticks a needle in his arm - not another tranquilizer, don’t they know these don’t work on him, and seriously what’s up with these people and their fucking needles! - and Daryl’s out like a light.

The sun rises, and the ocean turns red in the first rays of the new day.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
talk of substance abuse/addiction

The infirmary at the Institute wasn’t really made to act as a hospital substitute. It’s only got two beds, no equipment to monitor life signs, and definitely not enough staff to keep watch over someone day in and day out. When Daryl wakes up on one of those beds, he frowns, convincing himself he’s really not in a tiny water tank before looking around. He sees a pile of papers on one of the desks, and Aaron is laid out on the other bed, seemingly fast asleep. Denise isn’t around. Instead of her, Daryl finds Eric sitting on the chair by the desk. 

He doesn’t have the chance to ponder if he’s ready to talk to the man, or if he’d rather pretend he’s still asleep. Eric immediately notices he’s awake.

“How are you feeling? We had to use carfentanil to keep you under, so you might be a bit groggy for a while,” the man says.

“M’fine,” Daryl grumbles. His shoulder hurts something fierce, but it’s not bending in the wrong direction like when he was carrying Rick, so it seems like they got it fixed for him when he was sedated. 

Speaking of Rick-

“Before you ask,” Eric offers quickly, “Rick is alive and will remain that way. He’s going to have to learn to type with just his left hand, but otherwise, he’s got no lasting damage. Except for the trauma, but that’s not something they can assess yet. He’s awake and aware. Still confined to the bed, but that’s understandable with such a severe blood loss.”

“How long,” Daryl croaks out. His throat is dry. 

“Two days,” Eric replies. He gets up from behind the desk and brings Daryl a glass of water. Daryl downs it in two big gulps, and immediately feels better.

“You,” he says. Then, “Yer the orca.”

Eric nods and averts his eyes. He doesn’t even attempt to deny it. Not that he could. It’s not an accusation. Just a statement of fact.

“Why’d ya never tell me?” Daryl asks. 

“I wanted to,” Eric says, sighing. “It never was the right time. It still isn’t, I guess. I know you’re going to want to see Rick right away. Before you do, I hope you’re willing to listen to me.”

“Why should I?” Daryl mutters. He’s not over-eager to listen to anything but the steady beat of Rick’s heart right now. He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to calm down until he sees Rick alive, because can he trust anything Eric tells him? The man was a killer whale all this time. The only creature in existence that preys on Great White sharks, and he never thought it would be nice to mention it to the guy who’s actually a Great White shark.

Daryl doesn’t want to listen, but the somber look on Eric’s face tells him he should. 

“Okay,” he says. “Just be quick ‘bout it.”

“Thank you,” Eric breathes out, relieved. He picks up one of the papers from the desk and hands it to Daryl. 

Looking down at the jumble of numbers and graphs, Daryl frowns. “What’s this supposed to be? Ain’t everyone’s a science nerd.”

“This is one of the results for Rick’s blood work,” Eric replies. “I took a few samples before, you may remember. There’s a chemical compound in all of them. One that’s not supposed to be in human bloodstream all the time.”

“What?” Daryl asks, blinking. “What’cha mean?”

“Basically, the amounts of oxytocin in Rick’s blood are consistent with a drug addiction,” Eric explains. 

Daryl tightens both hands into fists, crumpling the paper in the process. “Rick ain’t no junkie,” he hisses. 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Eric says calmly. How can he be calm about this? He’s basically accusing Rick of… something. 

“I was surprised at the amounts of oxytocin, so I ran additional tests on all of his samples. I didn’t find any drugs, but I did find something else. It’s… I don’t know what exactly it is,” he admits. “I ran it through databases, but the only result that came up was Eugene Porter’s paper he submitted back when he was in college. He claimed he discovered a new chemical compound. He didn’t name it, but from what I read into his research, it caused a sort of obsessive love-like state. It’s highly addictive.”

Daryl squints at him. “So Rick’s got himself hooked on some kinda new drug shit? That what’cha sayin’, Eric? Spit it the fuck out.”

“More or less,” Eric says, sighing. “But, Daryl, that’s not all. I know how this new compound got in Rick’s bloodstream.”

“Well then say it,” Daryl demands. He’s fast growing impatient with all those accusations. He’s not sure he trusts them, and besides, Rick’s somewhere out there, waiting for him. Daryl needs to be with his mate, not in the fucking infirmary, listening to some bullshit about drugs.

“It’s from you,” Eric says finally.

“What?” Daryl asks, narrowing his eyes. He can’t believe the gall of this dude. “What kinda crap are ya on? Yer sayin’ I gave Rick drugs?”

“Not consciously,” Eric clarifies, “but yes, this is exactly what I’m saying. It’s in your saliva, Daryl. The chemical compound, it’s in your saliva. I had your samples, and I took some more when you were out cold, just to make sure there wasn’t any contamination. The results are very straightforward. You produce that compound, and it’s transferred through your saliva. Basically, you got Rick addicted by kissing him.”

“No,” Daryl says, shaking his head. He chuckles mirthlessly, then frowns. “No, I didn’t. Yer lyin’,” he accuses. “Dunno why, but yer lyin’. You must be.”

“I’m not,” Eric says. “I debated with myself whether I should be telling you this. I thought, if you didn’t know, it’d be easier for you. But I think you need to know. Daryl, the sort of addiction I’m talking about is very serious. The withdrawal symptoms alone are life-threatening-”

“How so?” Daryl interrupts.

“Rick suffered from severe chest pains. Denise accused us of not noticing him having a heart attack, basically,” Eric replies. “I wondered if this might be somehow connected, I mean, I thought Rick might’ve been suffering from withdrawal because I already knew about the oxytocin, but I purposefully let it slip my mind because we were busy trying to find out what happened to you. And anyway, I thought maybe it was actually separation anxiety, it does happen to shark mates when mating is interrupted. But then we came back, there was nothing to do but wait, and so I kept digging. I ran a quick experiment with the compound I extracted from your saliva. Mixed it with verapamil HCL, a calcium channel blocker. The hydrochloride emphasizes the toxin from your saliva, makes it stronger. That’s why when Denise injected Rick with it, he got better. He wasn’t having a heart attack, he was suffering from a withdrawal when the amounts of that chemical compound were getting too low, and the verapamil made his body think it got its fix.”

“This is bullshit,” Daryl mutters. He’s repeating himself, but he just. Doesn’t want to believe a word out of Eric’s mouth. 

Because if it’s true…

“It’s science,” Eric says softly, apologetically.

If it’s true… if kissing Daryl got Rick addicted…

“What does it mean,” Daryl whispers. “C’mon man, gimme more than that. Explain this to me. Because way I understand this, yer talkin’ to me ‘bout how Rick don’t really love me at all. Only thinks he does ‘cause some kinda drug in my saliva got him thinkin’ so. And it can’t be. So please, explain it so’s I can understand.”

“Daryl,” Eric says. He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes look so fucking sad. 

“No,” Daryl whimpers. “He loves me. He gotta. I ain’t got no damn drugs in my saliva. I… I ain’t…”

But even as he frantically tries to deny it, he begins to think: is this drug or whatever specific to him, or is it something his species just  _ does?  _ Is this why Will Dixon was with Daryl’s mama in the first place? Worse yet, was this how his mama kept her husband tied to her?... Was her murder the only way Will Dixon could ever be free of the addiction? He had some sort of heart problems, Daryl remembers. Soon after mama died, his daddy fell sick for days. 

And Rick? Rick told him. Said,  _ the depth of my feelings for you scares me,  _ and Daryl could feel how scared he was, but he didn’t understand. He thought it was a good thing. Because they loved each other so much! How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought it was some sort of fairytale when in fact, his whole relationship with Rick was actually a horror story all along?...

“You should go see him,” Eric says softly. “When he wakes up, the two of you can talk it over. I’m sure the feelings were there in the first place, otherwise you wouldn’t have had a chance to transfer the compound-”

“I forced him into this,” Daryl whispers. He inhales shakily, exhales. “Eric, I. Look what I made him do. He almost died ‘cause I gots him addicted to  _ me. _ ”

Eric frowns, moves like he wants to take a step closer. “Daryl,” he starts, but Daryl shakes his head. 

He gets up from where he was sitting on the bed. “I gotta go. Hafta… think,” he announces, and doesn’t wait for a reply. He heads to the door, and out, and further, until he can smell the ocean air and his feet sink in the damp sand, and. He runs. 

Rick doesn’t love him. He just thought he did, because he’s addicted to something Daryl’s got in his saliva. Rick almost died to save him. Lost a hand, all because of the addiction. All because Daryl’s a freak, and his daddy was right to hate him, wasn’t he? He knew what Daryl could do to people, he lived through his wife doing it to him, he knew what sort of monster Daryl really was. He was right when he said, over and over, that Daryl didn’t deserve to be loved. He didn’t deserve to have someone so good, so brave and so beautiful as Rick, he didn’t deserve to call him his mate, because Rick never even wanted to be his mate. It was all just a fucking illusion, a drug-induced bout of insanity, and surely when Rick wakes up, his body clear of the compound from Daryl’s saliva, he won’t want Daryl anymore. He’s going to hate him.

And Daryl can’t even blame him. He already hates himself. He hates Eric for telling him. He hates Negan, and even his daddy, for not killing him when they had a chance. 

What is he supposed to do now?

He feels like crying. He feels like punching something. There’s this pent-up energy inside of him that he can’t release simply by running away, even as his legs finally give out under him and he sinks into the sand. He’s not sure where he is, exactly. It’s a sliver of beach he’s not familiar with, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s alone, precisely as he needs, and he curls up into a ball, and lets the tears flow.

And then, suddenly, he sits up and wipes the tears and sand away from his face.

If the drug is in his saliva, he thinks, if it’s only in his saliva and nowhere else… He and Rick didn’t kiss deep enough for Rick to ingest any saliva until after Joe. Until after Rick told him he loved him. Before that, Daryl was too scared he’d hurt Rick with his teeth, and they only kissed with closed mouths. 

“Maybe… maybe he does love me,” Daryl murmurs, looking out into the ocean. 

Once again, he realizes, he acted too rashly. Ran away from the problem instead of trying to make sense of it. Asking for help. And he should’ve known better; the last time he reacted without thinking, it almost got a lot of people killed. Including his mate. Who, quite possibly, does actually love him. Even if eventually his feelings were heightened by the compound in Daryl’s saliva, the way they initially surfaced was genuine. He didn’t force Rick into being with him, thank fuck.

Relief tastes a lot like the salt in the air, and Daryl breathes it in before he gets up and straightens his clothes. He wonders who put them on him. It’s just a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, neither of them his. The pants fit, but the t-shirt is too tight. When he concentrates, he thinks he can smell traces of Rick’s scent on the fabric. Someone must’ve fetched the clothes from Rick’s house. Good thinking; just a whiff of the sweet scent of his mate does wonders to put Daryl’s nerves at ease. 

He should go back. Get dressed properly, and go to whatever hospital they’re keeping Rick in. His mate needs him. Even if there’s an unhealthy element to their love, a drug Daryl doesn’t know if he can do anything about, right now, he has to stop the self-pity party and be by Rick’s side. The rest they can worry about once Rick is back to health.

With that conclusion made, Daryl makes his way back to the Institute. It takes a while before he gets there - in his agitated state, he must’ve ran further than he thought; by the time he arrives, Eric and Jesus are at the pier, discussing something in raised voices.

“You can’t go look for him on your own,” Jesus protests, taking hold of Eric’s arm.

“Listen, I drove him away, so it’s only right that I find him,” Eric explains, trying to be patient but his voice is clearly agitated.

“He could kill you,” Jesus mutters, “and I can’t bear to… I watched you jump in that water, and I thought I lost you both. I can’t bear to lose either one of you, okay? Let me go with you. If anything, I can reason with him-”

“Ain’t gonna kill nobody, if I’s the one yer so worried ‘bout,” Daryl says, approaching the pair of them, lifting his hands in front of himself in a placating gesture. 

“Daryl,” Eric breathes out. He all but sags in relief, and he takes a step towards him, uncertain. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, or at least not right now, you’ve got a lot on your mind and you’re obviously worried about Rick, and I sprang that out on you out of nowhere, and-”

“Think yer wrong,” Daryl says simply.

Eric blinks. “Am I?” He asks. Instead of angry or anything, he sounds hopeful.

Daryl nods. “We ain’t kissed with like, tongue and all,” he explains, “not before my two-week long vacation. Rick already said he loved me before that.”

“Thank God,” Eric breathes. 

“Okay, you have to go to him then,” Jesus says. “It’ll suck if he wakes up without you there. Michonne should be at the hospital, she’ll get you in.”

Eric tells him where exactly to find Rick, and Daryl thanks him. He leaves Eric and Jesus to sort out their own relationship problems - he sure as hell ain’t poking  _ that  _ anthill with no stick; apparently, it’s not only humans who like to be unnecessarily complex, but damn orcas as well. It’s not like he has room to really judge. His own love life has been taking some twists and turns lately, too. Now he’s got to make it right if he ever wants to feel the way he did over those two weeks of almost marital bliss with Rick in his arms all the time.

If that’s even something he can look forward to, anyway. Rick might still decide he hates him, after all, and Daryl won’t begrudge him that. In his opinion, Rick’s got every reason to hate him even if the saliva drug thing isn’t what made him fall in love with Daryl in the first place. 

He arrives at the hospital in the ten minutes it takes to reach it on foot, and he’s immediately hit with an obstacle: Michonne isn’t anywhere to be seen, and the lady at the desk in the lobby doesn’t want to tell him shit.

“I’m sorry, sir, but if you’re not kin, I can’t reveal any information, and I can’t confirm that if you don’t have any ID,” she explains. She’s very polite about it and Daryl doesn’t want to be angry with her; she’s only doing her job. Still, he’s frustrated. He’s so close to Rick, he can all but  _ smell him,  _ and yet they’re not going to let him see his mate. Because he’s got no damn piece of plastic stating his name _ .  _ Like a piece of plastic can confirm what he feels about Rick. What do they know? It don’t get much closer than what Daryl and Rick are to each other, but stupid procedures won’t acknowledge that, will they?

“Daryl?” Asks a timid voice from the hall. Daryl turns and sees Carl. The boy doesn’t wait for a reply; he takes a step forward, and another, then breaks into a run straight at him. Left with no choice, slightly confused, Daryl scoops the boy up with ease and hugs him, and he feels a painful pang in his heart when Rick’s pup sobs into the crook of his neck.

“Shhh, lil’ one,” he mutters, awkwardly patting the boy on the back. “Shhh, ‘s okay. Yer daddy’s gonna be alright, yeah? It’s all gonna be fine.”

“His hand is gone,” Carl whimpers, then sniffs. 

Daryl puts him down on the ground and wipes the tears and snot away from the boy’s face with the bottom hem of his t-shirt. “Listen, lil’ man. Yer dad’s a real badass, okay? Even with a missin’ hand. He gonna be okay. Now ya wanna tell me where he is?”

“I’ll show you,” Carl offers, sniffing again. “My mom’s arguing with some scary lawyer lady. Mom wants to move dad to Atlanta ‘cause she says she doesn’t wanna stay here to look after him. Scary lawyer lady says she can’t.”

“She don’t need to be lookin’ after him,” Daryl mutters. “I’m here.”

“I know,” Carl says, and he smiles a tiny little smile. “They’re not married anymore. Andrea told me,” he divulges in a voice barely above a whisper, like it’s a secret that shouldn’t be out in the open. Daryl doesn’t know who Andrea is, but if he had to guess, he’d assume a divorce lawyer. And he’s glad. He knew that Rick’s marriage existed only on papers before, but the news that it’s not even that anymore makes him warm all over. Nothing ties Rick to that woman now. If he so chooses, he can belong with Daryl, and with Daryl only.

Lori Grimes, or whatever her name is now that the divorce is apparently finalized, is outside of the room Carl’s been leading Daryl towards, indeed arguing with a scary lawyer lady: Michonne. As soon as she notices their approach, a scowl appears on her otherwise quite pretty face. It makes her look ugly. Like a witch from a child’s cartoon.

“Why is he here?” She asks in a high-pitched voice. “Carl, I don’t want you talking to this man.”

“He’s dad’s boyfriend,” Carl protests. “He’s worried about dad too!”

Michonne looks at Daryl with exasperation clear in her features. “Finally, Dixon,” she says, “Eric called me an hour ago that you’d be showing up. I thought I was gonna have to send a car for you. Or a written invite. You ready to see him?”

“He can’t,” Lori hisses.

“Yes, he can,” Michonne replies calmly. “It’s very clearly stated in Mr. Grimes’ papers. Mr. Daryl Dixon, listed as the sole medical emergency contact,” she waves a folder with something that looks vaguely like documents inside. “Mrs. Grimes, it would be easier if you stopped making a scene. Otherwise I will have to call the police.”

“Thanks, ‘chonne,” Daryl murmurs. He smiles at Carl, who smiles back, ignores the stifled expletive Lori throws at his back, and enters Rick’s hospital room.

It’s not an intensive care unit, so there’s that. Doesn’t make him any less apprehensive as he approaches the only occupied bed in the room. Rick looks incredibly pale against the blue sheets he’s laid out on, which terrifies Daryl because he knows Rick tans easily and his skin has long since turned a lovely bronze color thanks to all the time they spent out in the sun together. He’s so frail on that bed, but even like this, he doesn’t appear weak. Not to Daryl, who knows Rick fought a dangerous foe for him, and made a horrible sacrifice, but survived. Despite everything, against all odds, he survived.

“Guess yer gonna have firsthand experience of a shark attack for yer stupid book,” Daryl murmurs, sitting down at the edge of the bed. 

“Mmmm. Pretty sure you’re not s’posed to mention hands in front’a me,” Rick replies. His words are slightly slurred, but he’s coherent. As Daryl stares at him in wonder, Rick’s eyes open and he smiles like he’s just seen something incredible. “Hullo there, you. Nice view to wake up to.”

“Rick,” Daryl says. He can’t quite contain the emotion in his voice, and he feels like he’s overflowing. Indeed, there are tears welling up in his eyes, again. He’s been awfully prone to crying lately. Must be all the hormones, make him act like a pregnant woman. 

He’s not always this hot-headed and emotional. He’s not! 

“‘m so glad you’re safe,” Rick mumbles sleepily. “Stay with me?...”

Daryl doesn’t dare open his mouth to reply because he’s sure he’ll start crying if he does. Instead, he takes Rick’s hand - his left one, the only one he’s got - and squeezes.  _ Always,  _ he promises, not with his voice, but with his eyes. Rick’s smile widens for a second, and then smooths out, and he falls asleep.


	39. Chapter 39

Daryl spends all the time with Rick at the hospital for all of three days before his mate decides he’s got enough and checks himself out. 

“If one more nurse coos at me how I’m so _ poor _ and _ helpless _ and _ brave, _ I’m going to bite their hands off, too,” he announces to Daryl right before he asks for the discharge papers. The story of how Rick survived a shark attack made the news, much like most of what’s happened that night in one way or another. It’s not strange that the papers latched onto the _ famous writer survives shark attack _headline and admonished their front pages with Rick’s photos. The problem is, Rick is a damn attractive man not just by Daryl’s estimations, and what he went through apparently awakened some sort of nurturing instinct in the female half of the population. 

The hospital room was overflowing with flowers, chocolate boxes and get-well cards. They took the chocolates when Rick was leaving, and the rest promptly went to the bin.

“If I want flowers, I’ll buy myself flowers,” Rick explained simply, and he did just that: got himself a small cactus on the way home. Had Daryl choose a spot for it. It ended up on the sunny patio along with some other succulents that were there when Rick first rented the house.

The home environment may be better for Rick than the constant buzz around him at the hospital, but that doesn’t mean everything’s fine. It’s too soon, and Rick’s recovery is a bumpy road, made all the more difficult by the fact he refuses to acknowledge that he went through something horrible. Hell, most days, he acts like the loss of his dominant hand isn’t that big a deal.

“You know, Shane, the guy Lori left me for,” he says on a completely innocent Thursday morning, smiling wistfully at the glass shattered on the floor. He accidentally pushed it off the counter as he was trying, out of habit, to reach for it with his right hand.

“Shane’s ambidextrous. He was always real smug about it, too,” he continues, looking up at Daryl. “I used to think he had the most useless damn talent ever. Who needs that kinda thing? Turns out, I was wrong. That talent would’ve,” he snickers, “would’ve _ come in handy. _”

It’s become a thing. The hand puns, that is. At first, they confused the hell out of Daryl; he didn’t understand how Rick could joke about such a dire matter. He was hurting, why was he acting like that was okay? Laughing about it, even?

“People do that, Pookie,” Carol explained patiently when Daryl had the opportunity to ask her about it. It was one of those rare moments when he was _ not _by Rick’s side: his mate had a doctor’s appointment and insisted on going alone, so Daryl used the time to see if anybody at the Institute needed him for anything. They didn’t.

Carol said: “Emotions are complicated. You know they are. We all deal with matters in a different way. Would you rather Rick was depressed?”

She was right, but there are still moments when Daryl wonders if it wouldn’t be better if Rick was more… well, _ human, _about what happened.

“Stop treating me like I should be traumatized,” Rick protests every time Daryl tries to get him to talk about it. “I’m not gonna break. Alright?”

But the thing is, Daryl knows most of how Rick acts during the day is posturing. He knows, because at night, in his dreams, Rick cannot pretend he’s made of steel anymore. He’s plagued with nightmares he sometimes can’t awaken from without Daryl’s help, and when he does wake up, he smells of fear and pain.

He always flinches away from Daryl’s touch directly after awakening from bad dreams. The first time it happened, Daryl tried to pull his mate into his arms for comfort, and Rick started thrashing in his hold, whimpering, begging him to stop.

“Don’t, don’t, please,” he sobbed, wide-eyed but unseeing, and he only calmed down when Daryl let go to turn on the light. 

“Rick,” he said softly, “it’s me. It’s just me.”

“_ Daryl, _” Rick whispered, and finally, his face showed recognition. He immediately shifted to hide in Daryl’s embrace, like he hadn’t just been trying to free himself from it, and he shivered. “I thought you were him,” he murmured into Daryl’s chest. 

The words made Daryl’s blood turn to ice. And boil. Simultaneously. 

He asked, “Rick, what did he do?” - but Rick wouldn’t say. He just shook his head and, slowly, relaxed in Daryl’s arms, and he fell asleep again before Daryl could pester him about answering the damn question.

Every night, the same scenario has repeated itself, and now two weeks later, Daryl still doesn’t know what exactly happened between Negan and Rick that night on the ship. Some parts of it, he can imagine. The teeth sinking into Rick’s forearm, right above his wrist. The threats and taunts. Negan was a mean son of a bitch, nobody needs to tell him that much. Just, Daryl doesn’t want to think about what else the bastard did to his Rick. 

Even before he tended to his mate after that first nightmare, he thought there was something wrong about the way Negan interacted with Rick. Now he knew for sure, knew he wasn’t just seeing things. Whole lotta good it did him, knowing. Well… suspecting, really, but Rick’s recurring nightmares are the sort of horrible confirmation that makes everything pretty obvious.

He tried asking Eric on the phone. Rick was in the shower, out of earshot. Unfortunately, Eric proved completely unhelpful.

“I’m not sure what happened,” he said apologetically. “There was a lot going on, and we got separated for a while. I can promise you one thing, though,” he added, and his voice changed. It became hard, almost dangerous. 

“Negan’s never going to be a problem again,” he said, and Daryl shuddered. Suddenly, he was reminded, once again, why Great White sharks feared killer whales. He remembered the red on the surface of the ocean, the terrible, immense presence in the water beneath the motorboat, and he knew Eric wasn’t lying. Negan was well and truly gone.

_ Good riddance. _

When it’s not night and the sun is up, Rick is all about acting like nothing bad ever happened. It’s been two weeks, more or less, and he’s physically much stronger than at the beginning, which, sort of unfortunately for Daryl, means his libido is returning. Now don’t get Daryl wrong, he _ loves _smelling the sweet scent of desire on his mate. It means the world to him: Rick still wants him, even after everything that happened, even without the addictive compound in Daryl’s saliva. The thing is, Daryl still hasn’t told Rick about Eric’s discovery. It never seemed like the right time. Rick was so frail and insecure at the beginning, especially during the night, and Daryl didn’t want to add more heavy shit to what his mate was going through. 

He can’t keep it from Rick any longer, though, and he knows it. 

“Let me clean this up,” he mutters, gently pushing Rick aside, and sweeps up the shattered glass from the floor. 

“You’re awful solemn this morning. You’ve only said a _ handful _of words to me since we got up,” Rick observes, tilting his head curiously. “Something on your mind, darlin’?”

“Lotsa shit,” Daryl admits, sighing, forcing himself _ not _to react to the pun. “Mostly you. Rick, I need to tell ya somethin’, and I’m scared you ain’t gonna like it.”

Rick blinks, but then he nods. “Alright,” he says softly. “I suppose it’s been a long time coming,” he shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything, you know. I understand. I hoped… well, never mind what I hoped.”

“What?” Daryl asks, confused. He puts the glass into the trash and replaces the sweeper in the cupboard, then straightens to look at his mate who isn’t looking at him for some reason. 

“Rick, what’cha thinkin’ I’m gonna say?”

“Well, you’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” Rick asks, and bites on his lower lip. He looks so damn sad, it makes Daryl want to punch himself. He must’ve been doing this whole protective, caring lover thing wrong. Otherwise, how the hell would his mate come to such a ridiculous conclusion? 

“I’m not gonna break up with ya, Rick,” he says firmly. When Rick still doesn’t look at him, like he doesn’t believe him, Daryl runs a hand through his hair. This is not a scenario he ever considered he’d have to deal with. He sort of expected, for a while, that Rick would dump him, not the other way around. He’s rather confused how this came about.

“Well why won’t you?” Rick asks, suddenly turning to face him. “Come on. I know I disgust you after all that happened. I disgust myself, too, with this… thing,” he casts a spiteful glance at his right arm, at the bandaged stump it ends with. “Don’t tell me it’s not true. You think I haven’t noticed? You won’t even kiss me anymore. Won’t let me kiss you. So you know what, maybe it’s better if you break up with me, because I can’t stand this, Daryl. I can’t live with you being with me just out of… I don’t know, pity? A sense of loyalty? Is that what this is? I don’t care what it is, Goddammit, I just-”

“I ain’t been kissin’ you ‘cause there’s a drug in my saliva makin’ ya addicted to me,” Daryl says quickly, interrupting Rick’s speech and effectively derailing his train of though.

The writer gapes at him like a fish out of water, confusion painted clearly in his pretty blue eyes. He looks at Daryl like he thinks it’s some sort of joke. 

“‘s true,” Daryl assures him. “You can ask Eric if you wanna. He’ll tell ya. He knows all kinda shit ‘bout this.”

“And you- I- You wouldn’t kiss me because, what? You were afraid I’d get addicted? Because, darlin’, I hate to tell you this, but I think that bridge has already burned,” Rick informs him, frowning.

“It ain’t just that,” Daryl protests meekly. “‘s not just addictive. It also makes it so yer… Well, dunno. Obsessive. Like, ya remember what’cha said? That you loved me so much it scared ya? Tha’s what this shit in my saliva does.”

“And that scares you?” Rick asks. 

Daryl nods. What scares him, what really fucking terrifies him, is that he may still lose Rick after all that they went through. Both scenarios he imagines for their potential future are bad, he can’t even tell which is worse. If his suspicions are correct, then Will Dixon killed Daryl’s mama to free himself of the addiction because he hated loving her to such an unnatural degree. And Rick already lost his hand and almost died fighting a monster shark because his addiction convinced him nothing was more important than saving Daryl, not even his own life. What’s going to happen if Daryl kisses him and Rick becomes addicted again? Will he grow to resent Daryl, will he eventually murder him just to get away - or will he get himself killed otherwise, in some desperate attempt to protect Daryl from whatever danger that might find him in the future?

“I think my mama knew what she was doin’ to my daddy,” he says finally. “I think she knew, an’ I think he sorta knew, too. Not like, all this scientific shit, he ain’t been smart enough for all that. But he knew she did somethin’ to him. And he hated her. And Rick, I can’t… I can’t have ya hate me, too.”

“I’m not like your father,” Rick says, and pulls Daryl’s arms around his waist, stepping into a loose embrace.

And how he can read Daryl so well even though they’ve only known each other for a few months will remain a mystery, but he can. He reads him like Daryl’s one of his own books, loose pages printed out on recycled paper, corrections and edits spelled with red ink on the margins. He understands Daryl’s fears and desires better than Daryl can ever hope to understand himself. 

“I loved you before I kissed you, Daryl,” he insists, resting his head on Daryl’s shoulder. His breath washes softly against Daryl’s earlobe. 

“I loved you even though I knew what you were. I still do, and Daryl, I’m scared of sharks,” he confesses, and shudders. “I didn’t used to be, not really, but I am now. I’m damn terrified of sharks, and even more so of sharks who look like people. But you… You’re different. You’re my mate. Mine. I love you, and I trust you, and one day, when you’re ready, I want you to kiss me again.”

“Love you so much,” Daryl whispers. He shakes his head. “I think… I think the drug’s in my saliva ‘cause without it, you wouldn’t know what it’s like. What it feels like. Ain’t normal, way I feel for ya, Rick. Ain’t human. I’d die for you. And I’d kill for you, too. I wanted to kill him for you, an’ it scares the shit outta me. Even more than that, it scares me what might happen if I make ya feel same way ‘bout me.”

“I already do,” Rick says. “Daryl… I don’t care what made me feel that way, what made me go after N-Negan the way I did,” he stutters over the name, and he sighs, frustrated with himself. “I don’t care about all that,” he repeats, “because we haven’t kissed in God knows how long, so my mind is clear right now, no trace of drugs of any kind. And you know what? I’d still do everything I did. Even knowing what it cost me, I’d still do the exact same things right this moment if it gave me a shot at saving you.”

“Ain’t right,” Daryl mutters, shaking his head, but he doesn’t know how to say with words what he feels with his heart: that Rick deserves better. That creatures like Daryl are to be feared, that Daryl isn’t any better than Negan when it comes down to it. He’s also a monster. Less of one, maybe, because he hasn’t killed anyone yet. But he’s selfish, just like Negan was selfish, and that makes him dangerous. 

“I’ve been keeping things from you, too,” Rick murmurs into his chest. He looks up. “You never talked about your brother much. Just that he disappeared,” he says, and there’s a question in his eyes. 

Daryl doesn’t know what this is about, but he inclines his head, a confirmation. “He called me at the Institute some five years ago. Said he’s in trouble. I thought he meant with the law again, ‘cause he got in trouble with ‘em cops a lot. But he swore up ‘n down someone was huntin’ him. Said ‘twas the government, some science dudes. Said they’s gonna do horrible experiments on him when they caught him, and Rick, I didn’t believe none of the shit he said.” 

Guilt gnaws at him. He tries to keep it at bay. Almost succeeds, but it creeps into his voice anyway. “Thought he was high. My brother, he was a junkie. Took whatever kinda drugs worked on him.”

“You’re talking about him in past tense,” Rick notes.

Daryl lets out a shuddery breath. “Negan said he killed Merle last year,” he says. 

“He lied,” Rick claims, and steps out of Daryl’s embrace. It’s his turn to sound guilty when he speaks: “In that lab, one of Negan’s soldiers grabbed me and pulled me away from the fighting. He showed me where to find you and he made me promise I’d save you. He knew I was your mate. Daryl… he called you his little brother.”

The words make Daryl’s head spin. “Wait, wait. Hold up,” he whispers. “Yer sayin’ Merle is alive? Rick?”

But even as he asks, he knows that’s not what Rick is saying. The way Rick’s shoulders sag, the way his mate won’t look at him, it’s clear that something is wrong. 

“I’m so sorry,” Rick whispers. He’s trembling, Daryl notices. He’s trembling, and he’s getting too worked up, and when he speaks again, he sounds close to crying.

“He was too focused on me, on telling me what to do. Neither of us saw Ne-Negan coming. Your brother, he- I couldn’t stop it, it happened so fast, I’m sorry, Daryl, I’m so sorry-”

“Rick,” Daryl says sharply, and his mate draws a shivery breath. 

“Rick, it’s alright,” Daryl says, and he touches Rick’s back with hesitant fingers. He doesn’t want to spook the man now, when it’s obvious he’s re-living whatever horrors he saw on that ship. 

“It’s not alright,” Rick whispers. “He died because he tried to help me, and N-Negan, he didn’t even… It was like those people, his soldiers, they were just broken toys for him. He didn’t care. God, Daryl, I was friends with that guy for _ years, _how is it possible that I never saw anything wrong with him? How come I never realized what he wanted to do to me…”

Daryl wraps his arms around Rick, pulls him close so that his mate’s back leans snugly against his chest. To his relief, Rick immediately relaxes into the contact, like this was what he needed all along. Like Daryl is his safe harbor in a storm. Fuck, he hopes that’s what he is. He wants to be. 

“That monster ain’t never threatenin’ ya again, Rick,” he promises vehemently. “He ain’t hurtin’ nobody again.”

“In my dreams, Eric never comes to save me,” Rick whispers, sagging against the hold of Daryl’s arms. “Every night, I’m still in that lab, bleeding out on the floor, and N-Negan, he’s there, touching me, saying those things to me, saying you’re dead and I’m _ his _mate now, and I wake up, but it’s never early enough,” he trails off.

“Will ya look at me, Rick?” Daryl asks, murmuring the words against Rick’s ear. Rick swallows audibly, then turns in Daryl’s arms and looks at him, and his eyes are bright and shiny with tears he refuses to shed.

“I’m still here,” Daryl promises softly. “I’m alive. He ain’t killed me.”

Rick bites down on his lower lip. “I know,” he says. “But at night, in my dreams, I don’t know that, and every time I wake up and push you away, it feels like he won. Like he broke me. I didn’t… didn’t want to tell you,” he admits. “It’s so pathetic. He didn’t even do anything like that. He tried to, but then I went for his jugular and he took my hand, and I should be worried about the damn hand instead, shouldn’t I? I mean, what’s it matter that he looked at me dirty. He didn’t do anything, but what he wanted to do terrifies me more than what actually happened. How pathetic does that make me?”

“‘s not pathetic,” Daryl says, and quotes Carol: “People process shit differently.”

“I don’t feel like I’m processing anything,” Rick confesses. “It feels like I’m stuck in a loop. The nightmares don’t change. Isn’t it supposed to get better with time?”

“‘s only been two weeks,” Daryl reasons, and the fact that he’s trying to be the reasonable one means Rick really isn’t alright. The problem here is, Daryl doesn’t know how what he can do for him. He knows so little about the human psyche. His own emotions are too complicated for him at times; how’s he supposed to deal with Rick’s? 

“I need help,” Rick says finally. It sounds like defeat, but Daryl can’t help but think _ this, _ this is the first step to actual victory. Rick admitting he can’t work this out on his own is improvement. Admitting he is traumatized. And now Daryl knows, too. Fuck, but he wishes he could’ve been the one to deal the finishing blow to Negan, to avenge his mate. But it’s better that Eric did it for him. It’s better, because holding Rick right now, breathing in the scent of his mate’s pain and fear, he is scared of the turbulent, _ violent _directions his thoughts are taking. Is this how Merle felt, that day a long time ago, before they saw each other for the last time on a cemetery in North Carolina?...

And he thinks, he’s been stuck in a loop, too. A damn circle of guilt and frustration, and he doesn’t know how to break it. Merle is dead, well and truly dead, and this time no amount of wishful thinking is gonna change it. There are no more miracles for good old Merle Dixon; for Daryl, it’s another cause for guilt, and Rick blaming himself makes Daryl want to hurt something because fuck if anything Negan ever did was in any way Rick’s fault. 

He needs time, probably, like Rick. Some sort of closure. A proper opportunity to mourn his brother. Rick needs… fuck if Daryl knows. Professional help. Help Daryl isn’t able to provide. Just being there for him, being close, it’s done shit so far. Only made both of them miserable, it seems, Daryl unable to get past his inhibitions to so much as kiss the man he loves - and Rick thinking Daryl didn’t want him anymore. 

It’s not gonna be easy, whatever they both got to do, but they’ve gotta do it, and eventually, they’ll be able to leave the nightmares behind.

“I think I need to go somewhere alone,” Daryl says, finally voicing what’s been on his mind for some time now. From the moment he realized the co-dependency their relationship had been based on was not sustainable. From the moment he realized he couldn’t kiss Rick anymore, not yet anyway, because Rick’s too vulnerable right now to tell the difference between his own feelings and the feelings Daryl’s kiss would inevitably induce. Doesn’t feel right, though, leaving when Rick isn’t alright. It’s almost like Rick was right and Daryl is breaking it off between them. It’s not what it is, but Daryl’s afraid Rick might take it as such.

“Not gonna be gone long,” he adds quickly. “Couple days at most. Wanna say goodbye to Merle, y’know. Bury him, kinda. See mama’s grave. Gotta… deal with my own shit, too, I guess.”

He immediately thinks, _ ain’t gonna leave ya though, _and he’s just about to offer to take Rick with him if the man so much as looks at him like he wants to go along. To his surprise, though - and relief - Rick doesn’t protest. Instead, his mate licks his lips and nods. “Might do us both good to be apart for a few days,” he says. He sounds sad, but resolved. “If nothing else, it’ll prove if I’m able to survive on my own for a while. You know, like a grown-ass man,” he chuckles in self-depreciation.

“Y’all ain’t gonna be on yer own anyways,” Daryl assures him. “Carol and the others, they’s gonna be there for ya. Yer family, Rick. Even when I’m not here, they’s gonna take care of ya.”

Rick smiles at that, a grateful little smile that makes him look a whole lot younger. After all the experiences he went through on that ship, after the nightmares, perpetually exhausted, he’s been looking older than he really is, but this smile reverts all that, revealing the breathtakingly beautiful man Daryl loves so much his chest constricts when he thinks about it. Rick deserves to be able to smile like this again, all the time. One day soon, he will. They both will. Together, holding hands, they’ll walk down the shore, letting late evening waves wash up stray shells and stones at their feet, and they’ll smile like two fools in love. Sometime in the future. Not yet, but really soon. Because they’re strong together, definitely stronger than some insane bastard who thought he could break them.

For now, Daryl has to commit the small smile Rick offers him to memory, because he won’t be seeing it for some time. They both have their own issues to deal with, their own monsters to fight; and they need different things to start healing. It’s alright. He’s not leaving forever. Hell, he’s not even leaving for a week if all goes well. He’ll be back soon enough, before the summer even starts in earnest, and then he’s never going to leave again. 

“I love you,” he says, like he thinks Rick needs to hear it when in fact, it’s more that he needs to say it. 

Rick doesn’t reply, but his smile lingers, and when Daryl closes the door behind him, just as the sun rises on the next day, he remembers that smile, and he smiles back - and he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will NOT be able to end this story in the estimated 44 chapters. I tentatively changed the number to 46, but it might still change. There are too many plot points I still want to address. Bear with me, guys <3
> 
> Also. Please don't be mad with Daryl for leaving right now. He's got his reasons, and well, it's going to be worth it in the end. You'll see. 
> 
> We're slowly gearing towards those happy endings for all that I promised~
> 
> And also, the wonderful @thepriexperience made me a cover art. You can find it here:https://thepriexperience.tumblr.com/post/616968823226122240/there-are-things-daryl-dixon-is-good-at-swimming  
I was trying to make a pretty link with html but it doesn't show? I don't know how AO3 actually handles such things... Any tips would be welcome!


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out a little long. It's part one of Daryl's therapeutic trip, mostly. Might be a bit gloomy in parts.  
Warning: mentions of suicide, death from terminal illness (cancer), death from drunk driving. People deal with issues in this one, so it's not pretty.

It’s quiet at the Institute nowadays. Most of Virginia Beach has been pretty deserted as of late. It’s not that strange after The Queen of the Depths arrived at the port with dead bodies aboard. The whole affair shook the population and the city became sort of a ghost town overnight as the FBI and police swarmed the streets, looking for potential witnesses and just trying to make sense of the whole thing.

It started with an anonymous tip-off to the local authorities about the sounds of fighting in the lower decks of the ship. Somebody - Daryl knows it was Aaron, but that’s not public knowledge - _ somebody _made the radio call at night, when the cruise liner was still a good eighty miles or so away from the shore. In case the police didn’t want to take it seriously, the anonymous source also informed the local news agencies that there was something fishy going on. That set the fire under the authorities’ asses. 

It helped that the Governor of the State of Georgia phoned the mayor to express his own concerns about the ship. Philip Blake claimed he was worried because a friend of his aboard the line cruiser contacted him via the ship’s wonky satellite Internet connection and said something was wrong. 

Blake’s call and the mayor’s subsequent political pressure on the commander of the police department proved to be the last piece of leverage the authorities needed to board The Queen as soon as she was anchored and docked in Virginia Beach. The staff there didn’t seem to know what was going on, but they were very helpful and eventually, the secret laboratories behind the boiler rooms were discovered - and within them, half a dozen of freezers filled with human body parts chopped up like meat in a butchery. There might’ve been dozens of people in all that. What made the whole thing all the more terrifying when it reached the public through various news outlets was the fact that many body parts were missing. Literally not one corpse in those freezers was complete. The press dubbed the entire thing the work of some mysterious _ Jigsaw Murderer. _

Like every story of a gruesome murder, it drew the public’s attention to the extent that the fact there were secret laboratories on the ship somehow managed to fly under the radar. Which was a good thing. It meant that, with substantial help from Philip Blake and his influential friends in the Congress, the Institute was able to seize most of the research from the labs and, in most cases, destroy the evidence. 

“Nobody should ever see these,” Eric explained as he, along with many others gathered that night at the Institute’s small sliver of beach, watched the boxes of documents and samples burn in several bonfires.

“Ain’t it normal for humans to use others’ research for good though? Even if it was horrible?” Daryl asked, slightly confused, even though he couldn’t help but feel satisfied to see the flames devour everything Negan worked so hard to achieve. 

“I’m not human,” Eric said, and it sounded final. 

That night, the existence of an entire species of human-shark hybrids which could’ve become public knowledge - was buried once again, turned to smoke and ash, and scattered in the ocean waves in the gray hours before dawn. 

In the days directly following the discovery of the Jigsaw Murders, Eugene Porter’s body washed up on shore a few miles south of Virginia Beach. It was mauled horribly by the ship’s rotors, but even so, the coroner found clear bite marks around the throat. It was assumed that the bites happened post-mortem, and Professor King was asked to deliver a hypothesis about the species that did it, since he’s an expert on sharks and all. 

Now, Professor King isn’t the sort of person to lie through his teeth, but this one time, he did. He lied to the authorities about _ young Mako sharks or maybe whitetips, difficult to tell with so much tissue damage, _and later, when nobody else could hear, he asked Daryl seriously, ignoring Carol’s outrage:

“Did you kill that man?”

And Daryl told him that no, he didn’t. That Eugene Porter helped them in the end, and paid the ultimate price for betraying his monster of an employer.

“I believe you,” Professor King said simply, and put a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. He squeezed it in reassurance. “I’m glad you’re back with us.”

Merle’s body wasn’t found on the ship, by the way. Neither were any of Negan’s soldiers, dead or alive. Eric and Aaron told Daryl everything they knew about those guys, but they didn’t really know much. Apparently, when the guy who dragged Rick away - Merle, Daryl knows that now - when he fell, some of the soldiers turned against the others. The smaller group joined Eric, Aaron and Jesus’ side, and their help was enough so that Eric could go to Rick’s aid. One of that group located Porter for them later, when most of the fighting died down. They all stayed behind to keep Negan at bay. Whether they survived that or not, nobody can tell. Daryl hopes they do. If they were all sharks… well, it’s nice to know there are some others like him out there, who might’ve survived Negan’s mad crusade. 

All of that made it so that now that Daryl enters the Institute, the hallways are empty even though it’s summer and the tourist season is at its peak. The staff should be milling about, making sure everything is ready for visitors. Jessie should be dusting off her reception desk for the hundredth time, insisting it wasn’t nerves but professionalism driving her. There should be feeding schedules posted on the cork board opposite the entrance, and diving class ads, and volunteer job opportunities for people interested in helping out at the Institute. 

Instead, there’s this sad, desolate feeling in the air. Feels kinda like the end of the world as Daryl walks the halls towards his small apartment. He came to pick up some shit before he has to get on the train to Delaware. He’s planning to catch a connection to Atlanta, and from there he can walk or try to hitch-hike to Orange County. He hasn’t got a plan set in stone just yet, but he’ll wing it if he has to. 

To his surprise, he finds Jesus asleep in his room - or rather, he startles the man awake when he comes in.

“Blargh,” Jesus announces and yawns mightily. He looks at Daryl through a squint. “What are _ you _doing here?” He asks, like it’s not Daryl’s bed he’s currently burrowing in. The way Daryl looks at him in response must be answer enough, because Jesus rolls his eyes and buries his head back in the pillow.

“If ya hate yer own bed so much, why ain’cha with Eric and Aaron?” Daryl mutters, shaking his head. 

Now that he thinks of it, though, he hasn’t seen Jesus interact much with either of the men since that motorboat escape. Granted, he spent the first two days asleep from an elephant sedative and the next two weeks mostly by Rick’s bedside and at his home, but still. He talked to people from the Institute sometimes. Had video conferences with Eric and Aaron on Rick’s computer sometimes, because they liked to show him footage from the cameras in the Biter Tank. Jesus wasn’t with them any of those times, and only now is Daryl beginning to question it: when he finds the man in his room, hiding away. 

“Jesus, man, seriously. What the fuck?” He asks, pulling his friend by the ankle. Jesus grunts unhappily as he slides down the bed, but he just hugs the pillow and takes it with him without so much as lifting his head. 

“Leave me alone,” he groans into the pillow. The words are muffled, but Daryl can recognize voices in the water, so really, some pillow distortions aren’t much of a challenge. 

“I will. When ya tell me what’cha doin’ in my bed,” he promises.

Jesus grumbles something rather unintelligible, but he rises into a more-or-less sitting position and looks at Daryl with a half-hearted glare. 

“I’ve been sleeping, moron,” he says as though that much wasn’t obvious.

“Yes, but why,” Daryl presses on. 

Jesus hesitates, but finally, he makes a decision to reply: “Nobody will look for me here. I’m free to hide out however much I want.”

It’s just the kind of half-answer that doesn’t answer shit, but Daryl realizes he won’t get any more out of his friend by pushing him. He shrugs, grabs the backpack from his dresser, and begins to pack the stuff he will need on his hopefully short trip: a few t-shirts he won’t miss if they get too dirty or damaged from a trek in the woods in the Appalachian Trail, a debit card for a sub-account Carol made for him in case of emergency, a replacement pair of reading glasses because his other pair got lost somewhere in Rick’s house, and he can’t even remember when. On a whim, he also packs the small paper bag filled with stuff that belonged to Merle: a couple of teeth he kept as a joke, a postcard his brother swiped from a souvenir stand in some small town in Florida, an old earring Merle used to wear to seem more badass when he was seventeen. A photo from a police database, labelled _ Arnold Schwarzenegger, _ because apparently Merle thought he was funny. He never told the authorities his true name, he always used either that or _ Mary Poppins, _which was even more ridiculous. But even if he told them his name, Merle Dixon didn’t exist in any databases of any state. Their parents never registered them, which made it all the easier for Negan to arrange for Merle’s disappearance over five years ago. 

Would’ve made Daryl’s disappearance just as easy if not for his friends, and Rick. 

He closes the backpack. He can feel Jesus staring at him throughout the whole packing process, and he can smell his friend’s curiosity, but he’s not about to volunteer any information. If Jesus wants to know where he’s going, he’s gonna have to ask. 

He does, just before Daryl moves to the door. He sighs heavily, like it’s costing him a great deal of willpower to open his mouth and form words, and he asks: “Why do I get the feeling you’re not going back to your love shack with Rick?”

“Dunno why yer gettin’ feelings of any sort,” Daryl admits, “but in this case, yer right. Ain’t goin’ to Rick’s place. I’m goin’ to Georgia.”

“Really?” Jesus frowns at him. Then, he hums thoughtfully, and offers: “Wanna take me along as your driver? My truck’s better than a plane or whatever other means of transportation you were going to use.”

“Was gonna take a train,” Daryl clarifies. “Truck sounds good. ‘s long as yer radio music taste ain’t shit.”

“Think we can come to a compromise,” Jesus promises, and gets up. He looks down at himself, dressed in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt that has seen better days. 

“Uh… Will you give me a minute to shower and change? I’ll buy you breakfast in return.”

Daryl agrees, because a couple of minutes won’t hurt him now that he doesn’t have to hurry to catch a train. He waits by the door as Jesus takes a quick shower in the tiny adjacent bathroom, and he just rolls his eyes when his friend opens the closet to reveal a bunch of his clothes already inside where Daryl’s used to be before he moved them to Rick’s place. 

“Yer makin’ yerself quite comfy in here,” he observes snidely.

Jesus huffs. “As if! This place is no better than Harry Potter’s cupboard under the stairs. I’m getting claustrophobic already. You couldn’t have come get me at a better time.”

Daryl doesn’t know who Harry Potter is, though he vaguely remembers a book mentioning someone like that in Sophia’s room. He doesn’t even begin to question why a grown-ass man would refer a children’s book. People do that sometimes. He could make some references to children’s movies himself, so he’s got no room to talk.

They leave exactly fifteen minutes after Jesus asked him to wait. The truck is parked in the visitor’s lot in front of the Institute because why shouldn’t it? It’s not like there are any visitors coming any time soon. Jesus gets into the driver’s seat and opens the passenger’s side door for Daryl - _ there’s a trick with this latch here, can’t open it from outside - _and finally, they’re leaving. 

It’s not until they’re on the interstate and the radio’s done playing an old classical rock song even Daryl knows the words to, when Jesus finally opens up about his reasons to want to leave with Daryl in the first place.

“When I was twelve years old, my mother died of cancer,” he says. His eyes don’t stray from the road. 

“It was awful, but she was sick more or less all my life to that point, so in a way, it was a relief when she died. I mean, at least I knew she was no longer suffering, you know?” He sighs. “But my dad, he took it far worse than I did. He bawled like a baby during her funeral. I remember the people staring at us, at my weeping dad, and I remember feeling so ashamed. I was so angry with him. He was supposed to be the adult, but there he was, crying like a baby when I had to be the strong one. But I would’ve forgiven him. He knew my mom longer than I did. He loved her differently, too.”

He pauses, looks into the rearview mirror, and then casts a cursory glance at the tablet of the GPS navigation. “But then, two months after she died, dad committed suicide.”

Daryl turns his head to look at him sharply, but Jesus doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he continues the story: 

“Bastard left a letter for me,” he says. “All about how he was sorry, but he couldn’t live without her anymore. Boo-fucking-hoo, cry me a fucking river. He couldn’t live without her, but he expected me to make it on my own? I was his damn kid, but that didn’t stop him. My mom, I get it, she had no choice, but dad didn’t have to abandon me. That was his choice. His alone. Who the fuck does that to their kid, huh? Who does that to someone they claim to love?”

He goes silent, and Daryl doesn’t know what to say. Is he supposed to say something? This is one of those social situations he’s not prepared for. Offering condolences for something that happened so long ago seems like a moot point, and if Jesus is still hurting from that, then Daryl’s condolences will mean shit anyway. And to be honest, he’s wondering what this has got to do with anything. Nobody died recently that Jesus cared for-

Ah.

“‘s about Eric and Aaron,” he guesses finally, and Jesus nods, and exhales sharply.

He says, “I keep seeing them leave me behind, and I can’t fucking deal with it, so I had to go and leave them in return.”

It makes no sense, and Daryl says so, but Jesus shakes his head.

“You won’t understand,” he says with conviction. “Your Rick, he wouldn’t leave you behind. He wouldn’t go sacrificing himself for somebody else’s sake, ‘cause Daryl, fuck, I’ve seen it. That guy’s only got eyes for you. When you’re there, nothing else matters. And I thought, fuck, I thought I had that, too. With them, I thought. I thought we could make it work. But then Aaron pulled that stunt with the fucking boat, and Eric went in the water to have a fucking showdown with a killer shark, and they left me alone, and. Daryl, I can’t. I can’t deal with that.”

“Ya think they did it for me,” Daryl understands suddenly.

Jesus snorts a short, ugly laugh. “Fuck you, dude. Sure they did it for you. Hell, we all did all sorts of shit for you. That isn’t what I’m talking about. Don’t you get it? I don’t want them sacrificing themselves for anybody. Not for you. Not for me, not for each other. No fucking sacrifices, because it’s so damn easy to get yourself killed. It’s not so easy being the one left behind.”

“They didn’t die,” Daryl points out, confused at his friend’s outburst, and the smell of distress on him.

Jesus sighs again. “No,” he admits, and he sounds defeated. “No, they didn’t.”

They don’t talk for a long while after that, before Daryl tells Jesus to take an exit from the highway. 

“It’s not the way to Georgia, man,” Jesus observes.  
Daryl shrugs. “Got a stop to make on the way,” he explains. “Actually, might be the most important stop.”

There’s a town called Santana in North Carolina. Daryl remembers it as a lazy ghost town surrounded by woods. The largest thing about it is its cemetery. The only noteworthy thing, too. Besides that, there’s a bar, an ugly, tiny place with a faded sign board. It was the damn center of the town’s social life. It had a damn near ancient jukebox which only played four tunes in a loop. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of sweat, vomit, piss and cheap booze. The local men all but lived there, only leaving when their wives or mothers or sisters came to pick them up. For some reason Daryl couldn’t understand for the longest time, Merle loved it here. Spent hours at the place. 

Walking inside with Jesus tagging along, Daryl quickly realizes the bar doesn’t seem to have changed at all. The same old tune is blaring from the jukebox in the corner, barely recognizable and definitely not enjoyable. Still, as soon as the song ends, a patron gets up from his stool, walks up to the jukebox and pushes a coin in the slot; as Daryl watches, the man presses a button and, once again, a familiar mechanized rendition of _ Country roads take me home _or whatever that old thing is called, begins to play. 

Daryl used to dislike the song. He used to hate this place. He didn’t know why Merle insisted on staying here for so long: here in the bar, but also in Santana in general. Now, all that’s doing is making him nostalgic. 

“Why are we in this dump?” Jesus asks, sliding into a booth when Daryl points the table. 

“Good memories,” Daryl replies, and goes to the bar to order beers. 

The bar keeper is a burly old man with a mean-eyed look and a badly healed scar under his eye. Daryl recognizes him from all those years ago; he’s the owner, Owen or Cohen, something like that. An okay guy. As long as he got his dollar bills, he didn’t mind anything. 

“You look familiar,” he says when Daryl asks for _ two big buds and an ashtray, _more out of long-forgotten habit than an actual need for the ashtray. 

“Been here before, once or twice,” Daryl says. He doesn’t want to lie, but the circumstances of why he and Merle left Santana weren’t exactly the best. He’d rather not jog anyone’s memory and link himself to those events. “Just passin’ by,” he clarifies, and hopes for the best.

“Yep, seems ‘bout right,” agrees Owen or Cohen or whatever his name is. He puts two glasses on the bar, takes one, fills it, then does the same with the other. 

The bar doesn’t use tankards or even glasses that come in sets. They’re cheap stuff added as a bonus to multi-packs of beer during promotional sales. They’ve got colorful brand logos and all that. At least they seem to be mostly clean. So much so, Daryl can smell a faint undertone of dish soap under the bitter tang of beer. 

Well fuck it, it’s not like the taste can get any worse.

“Still a Linc for two?” Daryl asks. It took him a long time to realize what he used to think was some secret code actually referred to the US president depicted on a five dollar bill. It’s the most frequently used currency here. _ They’s only know Lincs and Hams, no Frans ‘cause nobody’s got so much money lyin’ ‘round in this neck of ‘em woods, _Merle used to say. 

Five dollars, back when Daryl was here with Merle, used to cover two beers, a pack of matches to go with the ashtray, and the tip for the bar keep. Merle spent a fortune here, drinking his days away. Nobody questioned where he got the money for that. Not even Daryl.

“Aw, man,” Owen or Cohen says. “Costs a’ livin’ went all up since - whenever you was last here. Now ‘s Linc with a coupla seals for company, ya know what I mean?”

Daryl frowns, confused, and shakes his head. Owen-Cohen quickly explains:

“What are ya, a foreigner? I’m sayin’, ‘em one dollar bills, got old man Wash on one side an’ Great Seal on the other. So, two of ‘em seals go with Linc. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Daryl mutters. He doesn’t have any one dollar bills with him, so he hands Owen-Cohen a ten instead. “Keep the change, man. Use it for the jukebox or somethin’, keep the music goin’.”

He returns to Jesus and gives him both beers. His friend slides one of the glasses back to him, rolling his eyes.

“You bought it, drink it,” he says. “Only one of us has a driving license, remember? Wouldn’t like to lose it before we’re back home. I’m a lightweight.”

“Yeah, fine,” Daryl replies, rolling his eyes. “Ain’t come here for drinkin’ anyways. Gonna tell ya a story now. Will you shut up an’ listen?”

Jesus just nods, and Daryl hums thoughtfully. Where does this particular story start? Or when? Hah. He never thought he’d want to tell it to anyone. It was supposed to be a secret. To the grave. Well, fuck this. Wherever Merle’s grave is, the secret surely can’t hurt him anymore.

“After our piece of shit daddy died, Merle an’ I, we went on a roadtrip kinda thing,” he begins. “Merle sorta stole a car. I was seventeen, I think, maybe younger. Can’t remember. Thing is, I couldna done nothin’ to argue with him, ‘cause he was much older an’ real convinced he was the shit. So we went on a damn trip. All across Georgia. Then to Alabama ‘cause he liked that song, _ Sweet Home Alabama. _Blasted it all day long in that car. Then to Louisiana through Mississipi, then Texas, an’ then he said the South got borin’, so he drove us north. Don’t remember why we ended up here, in Santana, North Carolina. But we stayed. We stayed a good few months, even though I wanted to go east to the coast or somethin’. Merle always promised we’d go.”

He shakes his head, takes a sip of the beer and grimaces at the bitter taste. How can people drink this shit?

“There was a girl here, a long time ago,” he says softly. “Pretty little thing, big eyes, nice voice. She worked the bar on Mondays and Wednesdays, sometimes on the weekends too. Her name was Katie Davies.”

“You liked her?” Jesus asks, somewhat surprised.

“Not like ya think,” Daryl explains. “Told y’all before. Ain’t never liked nobody like that before Rick. Nah. Katie was just nice, least to me. Thing was, she was somethin’ more to Merle.”

“Your brother was in love with her,” Jesus guesses, swirling the beer in the glass and watching the bubbles.

“Mhm,” Daryl agrees. He knows that now. He didn’t, not back then. 

“It was so weird to see. Merle, he was a tough son of a bitch. Ain’t never shown weakness, not once, but with that girl, he went all soft. He’d smile, and listen, I knew the fucker all my life, and I ain’t never seen him smile in all that time. Not once, not for nothin’. But he smiled for Katie Davies, and fuck if she didn’t smile right back.”

He chuckles to a memory of his brother looking completely dumbstruck when Katie Davies gave him one of those adorable smiles of hers. It was like puppy love from that moment on. Merle would drag Daryl into the seedy bar every Monday and Wednesday, and on weekends, just so Daryl could watch and roll his eyes at his brother’s thickheaded attempts at romance. Merle would give her generous tips and tell her she had a _ nice rack, _ whatever that meant, and damn if the girl didn’t eat it right up. Even though she must’ve had drunk patrons calling her pretty all the time, she actually seemed to love the attention from Merle in particular. It was strange to watch, but also sort of fascinating. Merle was a different man with Katie Davies. Didn’t get high on nights he’d see her. Calmed down some. Started taking care of what he looked like. Bought a new fucking shirt, even. 

And then Katie Davies was hit by a drunk driver when she was going home from work one night. The bastard went and left her on the street, and she died during the night before anyone found her. He was a local man, a regular at the bar. He came the following night and, after drinking too much, he went and told people how he thought he might’ve been the one who killed the girl.

It was the last time Daryl ever saw his brother.

“The guy done that to her, he never was found,” Daryl tells Jesus, but it’s not entirely true. He found that guy, or what remained of him. He picked up the bits and pieces, brought them to the woods, and he piled them on one big pyre, and he burned them, and once the flames went down, he buried the charred bones in the local cemetery, in one of the fresh graves. He left Santana the next morning, following Merle’s trail, but he lost it soon after. He ended up hitchhiking, which somehow landed him in suburban Atlanta, wondering what to do with himself next. There, he met Carol, and the rest is history.

“Let’s go,” he mutters after he finishes the sob story of his brother’s romance. “Got one more place here to see.”

Jesus is all too happy to leave the terrible beer and the smoke-filled bar far behind, so without further ado, they go to the cemetery instead. It’s damn huge, twice as big as the town, or maybe more. It’s dark out already, but it’s all the same to Daryl. He remembers that place where he buried the remains of the guy his brother murdered. More importantly, he remembers where Katie Davies was buried, and that’s where he takes Jesus. 

“Mighta been for the best,” he says, looking down at the headstone. “Merle ain’t a good guy. He wouldna married her, wouldna made her happy. He woulda left her behind sooner or later. Ya know?”

Jesus pats him on the back in a friendly, comforting gesture. “Maybe. Maybe not,” he says. “There are bound to be things about your brother you didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, thinking back to how Merle died helping Rick. Like a hero, though he would’ve scoffed at the idea. In many ways, Merle was simple like a real shark. There are no heroes or monsters when you’re a five thousand pound fish, and there were none of those for Merle Dixon. But Daryl isn’t so simple. Daryl needs the abstract concepts like _ love _ and _ friendship _ and _ heroism, _because without them, nothing seems to make a lot of sense anymore.

Maybe he’s much more human than he originally thought.

He buries the paper bag of Merle’s things there in Katie Davies’ grave, by the headstone. She wouldn’t mind, and the place is as scenic as it can get. It’s not the ocean, but Merle never really missed the ocean so much even though he knew it better than Daryl, as a kid. He didn’t love it, not like their mama. Hell, if Merle loved anything, it would’ve been the old truck he stole that he drove around the damn States. And the high he chased all the time, and that pretty bar girl one time in Santana, North Carolina.

And maybe, in the end there, he also loved Daryl.

“Goodbye, you old bastard,” Daryl mutters, and straightens, and looks at Jesus. His eyes are dry when he nods and starts walking towards the cemetery gate, his friend’s steps echoing in the dark behind him. Funny. Nothing happened here, but it already feels like a heavy weight has been lifted from his back. He can breathe better. 

There’s only one more grave he has to see before he goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we're going to find out more about Daryl's relatives. Are you guys excited? Because I am!


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter, I had to rewrite some of it. TBH it was supposed to be about something else, but it got too long and I had to divide it into two parts. The next should be up Wednesday/Thursday.

When the evening grows late and Jesus becomes too tired to drive, they decide to stay the night in a shared room in a seedy motel just off the side of the interstate. It’s the type of place Daryl is vaguely familiar with from his roadtrip with Merle: two beds, a wallpaper that’s seen better days, the stale stench of beer and old smoke that likely won’t ever go away no matter how many times the room is aired. If it ever gets aired at all. Daryl tried to open a window as soon as they walked in, but it wouldn’t budge. 

“You know, I thought we’d find somewhere more classy for our first night together,” Jesus announces before he plops down on the bed. He hisses in pain at how hard the damn thing is. Daryl knows if he lifted the sheets, he’d see at least a couple of springs coming out, so he’s much more careful about sitting down on his own assigned bed.

“Eh, had worse,” he replies simply, but doesn’t elaborate. 

He misses Rick something fierce. His scent, his warmth, his voice. His stupid hand puns, even, which he never expected he would miss. It’s only been a day, not even twelve hours, and already he feels like making Jesus drive them back. But Rick said it would be a good idea for them to be apart for a couple of days. Rick said so, and Daryl won’t do anything against Rick’s wishes. 

“You seem nervous,” Jesus notes. He’d have to be blind not to notice how Daryl’s hands are clenching and unclenching on the covers of the bed, or how he’s started tapping his foot on the floor. 

“Missin’ Rick,” Daryl reveals softly, because what’s the point of lying about it? He’s not ashamed of the fact he loves his mate, probably a little too much to be fully healthy from a human point of view. And Jesus is his friend. They’re supposed to be telling each other stuff. 

“Ah. I get that,” Jesus admits. He sounds a bit sad. “I’m trying not to miss them, you know. Trying to keep myself angry with them. It’s not working, though.”

“Well, good,” Daryl says, shrugging. “Ain’t much sense bein’ angry when it don’t do nothin’ to make ya feel better.”

“Yeah well, people are complicated,” Jesus quips. “I bet it’s all so simple for you. You and Rick love each other, so obviously, you’re gonna be fine and happy and all. It’s not that easy for most people, though. We can’t just get over stuff like that.”

“Ain’t easy for us neither,” Daryl replies. He sighs and lies down on his back, staring up at the dented ceiling. 

“Ain’t easy for Rick, especially,” he mutters. “He told me what happened, kinda. What that Negan bastard wanted to do to him. I thought ‘bout bein’ angry with y’all. Coulda helped him, gotten to him earlier, yeah? But, man. Coulda, shoulda, ‘s all bullshit. Stuff happened. Merle died. Rick lost his hand an’ gained a fuckin’ crooked sense of humor ‘bout that shit. Gained fuckin’ nightmares, too. Think this shit’s all that easy for him? Worst thing is, I had to go an’ leave him alone with all this. ‘cause my brother died, and Rick almost died, and I dunno how to deal with it all. Ain’t never had a chance to do _ grief _ properly.”

“When your mother died,” Jesus says, and trails off.

Daryl sighs again. “When mama died, ‘twas different. Couldna even cried ‘cause if I did, daddy woulda beat me up more. And… sharks don’t cry, yeah? Mama tried teachin’ me that. Dunno what she was thinkin’. I ain’t no shark, man. Ain’t no simple fish. I cry like all ya sorry bastards do. I got ‘em tear ducts or whatever.”

“I didn’t mean to say you’re emotionless or anything like that,” Jesus says softly. “I just meant… it’s simpler for you, because you’re convinced it’s gonna be okay. Aren’t you? You and Rick are _ mates, _whatever that means. You’re meant to be together. Some sort of star-crossed lovers stuff. Me? I’m just a third wheel.”

He rolls over to his stomach and hides his face in the pillow. Then he rolls over again, groaning at the old cigarette stench the pillow undoubtedly exudes. Daryl could’ve warned him about it, had he asked before inhaling the smell deep into his lungs. 

“Fuck, this shit will give me second-hand cancer,” Jesus grumbles.

“Now, listen,” he says, sitting back up. “You’re probably thinking I’m, like, completely unreasonable. I got involved with two men who were together before even meeting me. I got into this of my own free will, didn’t I? So I’ve got no room to complain. But I am complaining, because they said they loved me, and then they did that shit. What if either of them died? That Negan dude was like, twice Eric’s size, and yes, I know I’m exaggerating, don’t correct me, I don’t care about precision right now-”

“Just meant to say,” Daryl interrupts, “when they both was in the water, felt like Eric was twice that bastard’s size, easy.”

“Really?” Jesus blinks. “Huh. I guess it makes sense. The kinda presence ya guys have when swimming is completely different to who you are on land. Take yourself for example: you’re sort of awkward among us people, aren’t you? Less so since you met Rick, but still. But you’re not awkward at all when you swim. I saw you a couple times. It’s like you’re, I don’t know. Dancing.”

“Dancin’ is awkward though,” Daryl says. It’s a point of contention between himself and Carol. Carol loves dancing, she could do it all the time, and she loves watching various dancing contests on TV. Daryl thinks it’s a waste of energy and looks dumb. He lost cookie privileges over that opinion too many times to count, and he eventually learned his lesson.

Well, Jesus isn’t making any cookies, so he can’t withhold any from Daryl.

“Yeah, it is,” Jesus agrees. “I don’t have another comparison though. Mind’s blank. I guess I might be tired after driving all day.”

“Yeah, man. Go to sleep,” Daryl advises. “Ain’t gonna be keepin’ you up no longer.”

“If you think I’m gonna just fall asleep,” Jesus mutters unhappily. 

Daryl doesn’t reply. He gets that. He’s probably not going to sleep tonight, too. His mind is restless, his thoughts too tightly wound around the fact that Rick is miles and miles away from him - in a place where Daryl can’t protect him. He knows Rick doesn’t need protection, he’s tough and strong, possibly stronger than Daryl; but it’s an instinct that drives him, to protect his mate, to keep him safe especially now when he’s vulnerable. 

It’s the first night Rick will spend on his own after Negan. Will he be alright?

“You know, there was that baby,” Jesus says. 

Daryl remembers the bundle Aaron passed over to Jesus before he went to do his thing to set the motorboat free. He thought it was a baby, but he was a little busy at the time, and later nobody told him shit about it. They must’ve grabbed it from the lab, he supposes. But then, where did Negan even get a baby? Did he snatch a shark baby off someone? Or was it some sorta experimental baby he did from that genetic shit he was telling Daryl about?

“She’s not a shark,” Jesus adds after a while, as though he knows precisely what questions are running through Daryl’s mind. 

“I mean, she was breathing underwater, but Eric told us she’s mostly human. More human than you are, from what they can tell. They can’t be one hundred percent sure before her teeth come in, but they compared the samples and, yeah. Less bitey than you.”

“What’s gonna happen to her?” Daryl asks. 

He isn’t sure if he cares or not, but maybe he should. It’s a baby. A tiny pup who was taken from her mama and experimented upon because a dude wanted to sire shark pups with his wife. What a mess.

“Well, once Professor King is sure she’s not gonna grow surprise teeth, she’s going to be put up for adoption. Unless we find her real family, I guess. Michonne was on it, last I heard, but they’re not optimistic about it. Eric thinks one of those shark soldiers in Negan’s militia could have been the mother. There were some women there.”

That makes Daryl wonder. Did Negan make his soldiers mate with each other? Sharks don’t breed in captivity, but humans do. Especially if certain drugs are used, Daryl heard. Would Negan’s science team - led by Eugene Porter - would they have forced the shark people together to create a supply of pups they could then experiment on? Fuck, but that would be sick. Sicker than almost everything else Daryl already knows about Negan’s damn pet project. 

But then, Daryl can’t help the tiny, hopeful thought that flickers to life: could the pup be Merle’s?

“Wanna see her, when we’re back home,” he says before the somewhat more rational part of his brain can shut down the idea. It tells him, _ what are you gonna do, adopt the pup? You’d be useless as a dad. And what would Rick say about this? He’s scared of sharks. You wanna drop another shark on him? _

“Yeah, it might be a good idea,” Jesus agrees, oblivious to Daryl’s internal conflict. “You could try swimming with her. I mean, you know, she’s too tiny to swim on her own, but like… float in the water, see what you can sense about her.”

Or he could take the pup and bring her as far away from the ocean as possible, so she never learns about her true nature. Maybe, if she was raised in a rocky desert town somewhere in Nevada, she’d never grow shark teeth. She’d never become the thing that Daryl is. 

“Eric considered adopting her, you know,” Jesus says, then inhales and exhales loudly. “He changed his mind, though. Said it would be creepy for an orca to raise a baby shark. Said he wouldn’t feel right.”

“It woulda been kinda creepy,” Daryl admits. 

Would Rick accept a pup that isn’t his? A pup who might grow rows of sharp teeth eventually. Could Rick love it? Daryl used to imagine having a pup with Rick, raising it together, teaching it to swim and to write, shit like that. He thought they could adopt a pup from somewhere. But those fantasies never factored in that the pup might not be human, and now after everything, Daryl doesn’t know anymore. 

Sophia wouldn’t mind a sibling. Would Carl? He seems to like Daryl well enough to accept that Daryl is dating his dad, but what would he think if a baby entered the picture? Like, he could possibly expect a new baby from his mother and her new man. His dad’s boyfriend, though? Yeah, Daryl is, like, a safe bet that no surprise siblings would be brought up. 

Or was. Because now he’s considering taking in a baby who might be Merle’s. Might not be, probably isn’t, but could be. Which means it could be Daryl’s kin. His niece, and if that’s true, then he can’t just let her be adopted by whoever.

Rick is an amazing dad to Carl. Daryl hasn’t seen a lot of their interactions, but he thinks what he has seen is telling enough. Carl loves his dad the same way Daryl loved his mama, to a degree: he trusts Rick absolutely and adores him. But where Daryl never wanted to question his mama, Carl doesn’t hesitate to question his dad whenever he disagrees with something Rick decides. He laughs at Rick sometimes, and calls him _ old _even though Rick is anything but old, and when Rick started with his dumb hand jokes at the hospital, Carl was the first one to call them lame. It reveals a lot about the way Rick’s been raising his pup: to be outspoken and curious, to express his opinions and not be afraid to ask about anything he doesn’t understand about the world. 

Daryl would be a terrible dad, probably. He’d spoil a pup rotten like he has been spoiling Sophia, and he’d run away to the sea as soon as the pup started being difficult. At least, if he was to be left alone to raise the pup. Maybe if Rick was there by his side and they cared for it, for _ her, _together, maybe… maybe it would work?

It could work. It could.

“Think Rick ‘n me would be good parents?” He asks, already halfway convinced it’s not the worst idea he’s ever had. 

His only reply, however, is a soft snore. Hah. So much for Jesus not falling asleep. Shaking his head in amusement, Daryl gets up and takes a blanket which he uses to cover his friend’s sleeping form, sprawled on top of the bed in what doesn’t seem to be the most comfortable position. Oh well. Jesus is an adult. Let him face the consequences of his own choices. Like the numbing of limbs from sleeping like this. 

Daryl smiles and walks to the window. He sits down on a hard chair and looks outside. There’s only the parking lot visible, mostly empty save for their truck and one other car that looks kind of vintage. Places like this used to give Daryl the creeps when he was younger and still traveling with Merle. Noises from the other rooms kept him up at night, the stench trapped inside gave him headaches. He used to think that would be his life forever. He thought it would be him and Merle against the world, one seedy bar at a time, until they both got themselves killed. 

It’s just a place now, this motel. One of thousands across the country. It’s got its noises and its smells, but they’re not Daryl’s problem anymore. He’s just a passerby. His life is back in Virginia Beach, miles and miles away, and he misses it terribly. Back home, he’d be in bed with Rick. Rick would be in his arms, pressed as closely as he could to Daryl’s body despite the warmth of the nights in early summer. Daryl’s nostrils would be filled with the scent of Rick’s sweat and musk, the sour smell somehow sweet to his senses. He’d breathe it in, let it fill his lungs. He’d press careful little kisses to Rick’s hairline, calming and protective, and Rick would sigh softly in his sleep, pressing his face into the crook of Daryl’s neck in search of a more comfortable position.

He closes his eyes and can almost imagine being there, holding Rick close. Rick’s left arm wrapped around his waist, the right one curled between their chests. Rick’s beard brushing lightly against Daryl’s skin with the man’s every breath. The sound of Rick’s heartbeat, slow and regular, marking the peacefulness of his dreams. 

When the nightmares come, he knows immediately. He breathes in deeply, frowning. His chest tightens with a foreign, anxious feeling he isn’t sure actually belongs to him. Feels like he’s trapped, like something is holding him down and choking him. Fear. He’s never experienced fear like this before, and suddenly he realizes, it’s not his own. It’s not. It’s Rick’s.

Somehow, he’s experiencing Rick’s fear.

He doesn’t know what to do. Rick is dreaming, stuck in the nightmare he’s been battling since he woke up in the hospital, and Daryl is too far away to wake him up. But then… maybe he doesn’t need to? If he’s not going crazy and Rick is somehow in his head, connected closely enough that his emotional state is bleeding into Daryl; if it’s all true, then. It’s possible Daryl can do the same, right? He can push what he feels to Rick. To help.

“I’m here,” he says in a soft voice barely above a whisper, concentrating hard on the warm, lazy feeling of being in bed together, sleeping in each other’s arms. The comfort it gives him when Rick calls him _ sweetheart _ before saying good-night. How he thinks it’s adorable every time Rick drools on him. He concentrates on all of that, and he sort of _ pushes _the thoughts at Rick, imagining them floating on the surface of the ocean like… like a buoyant, translucent ball of light, carried by the waves to the shore where Rick waits, arms outstretched. 

“He can’t hurt ya no more, Rick,” he murmurs, hoping that his words carry over this, what, this bond - thing? - something between them, hoping that Rick can sense him, that the connection isn’t one-sided. He loves Rick so much, and he wants Rick to feel it, too, the depth of his love; he wants to wrap Rick in it like a cocoon, a sort of invisible barrier between him and the world of dark dreams which hurt him.

_ “Always gonna be with ya,” _ he promises, not out loud, not in a motel room somewhere in North Carolina - or is it Georgia already? He doesn’t know, - not _ away, _ is the point. In this moment in time, he’s not wherever his body is. He’s with Rick, in the darkness, and he absorbs all of Rick’s helpless terror, absorbs it and turns it into _ I love you. _

_ Daryl, _ Rick says, a burst of light, a burst of hope, a damn explosion of colors, a galaxy reflected in the water surface on a cloudless night. Relief. Joy. _ Peace, _Daryl thinks, and Rick thinks, and - yes. Comfort. The fear dissipates like cigarette smoke blown away by a gentle ocean breeze. There’s only Rick, now, and there’s Daryl, and they’re not touching, they can’t be touching, but they are touching all the same. Daryl lifts his hand and rubs Rick’s humid cheeks with dry fingers, brushing away the tears leftover from the nightmare. Rick sighs softly, and leans into him, and then they’re kissing, and it feels real and it feels like a dream, and Daryl doesn’t care which it is because Rick’s lips are soft and warm and slightly salty under his, and his mouth tastes like mint and the remnants of sleep, and his everything is- he’s-

_ “Thank you,” _ Rick whispers, and they’re still kissing, and they’re floating in the water, wrapped around each other, and it’s safe. This place, this state, this something. A bond. A connection. It’s not real, where they are, what they’re doing, but it doesn’t even matter: Daryl feels Rick just as if they were right next to each other, and Rick isn’t terrified anymore. He’s peaceful. He’s warm, and comfortable, and in love.

So Daryl sleeps, or doesn’t, and he dreams, and he touches Rick, and kisses him. Time passes and stands still, night changes into day, and Daryl wakes up in the morning to Jesus complaining about back-ache, and he realizes - the emptiness in his chest is gone, and he’s never felt so peaceful before.

_ Was it a dream? _ \- He asks himself, frowning. He’s not used to dreaming because sharks rarely dream. He doesn’t remember dreams, not usually, not good ones. But then, what could this have been but a dream?

“Oh man, I’m never sleeping in a motel again,” Jesus grumbles. “I’d rather sleep in the truck. All my stuff stinks like this smoke shit.”

“Yup, ya stink,” Daryl confirms for him, shaking his head. No use thinking about what happened at night. He has no idea how his species functions, so what the fuck, maybe he and Rick really met in a dream-like state. Or he was just more tired than he thought and dreamed it all. Fuck if he knows.

It’s not until he’s back in the truck with Jesus, heading south towards the place where he grew up, that he checks his phone. There’s a missed call from Carol, another from Aaron, and a text from Rick. Ignoring the calls, Daryl reads the text, and it makes him grin like a fool, so much that even Jesus looks at him sideways. Like he's worried about Daryl's sanity. Needlessly so; if anything, the text confirms Daryl is completely sane, after all.

It says, _ Good morning, darling. I had the most wonderful dream last night. _

_ Me too, _Daryl thinks, and he turns on the radio. It’s a beautiful day.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, another chapter!

Memories are a tricky thing. Daryl thought the wooden cabin in the woods where he spent the majority of his childhood was so far away from civilization, he’d have trouble finding it now. He thought, honestly, that it’d take hours hiking up the Appalachian Trail, but in fact, it’s located maybe two miles away from a small town called Greater Whites in King County. Daryl can’t help but snicker at the name of the town, feeling like maybe he just got a joke Will Dixon made to himself when he drove his family through here twenty-five years ago. It’s so strange, to think about that bastard of a man and not feel anything other than amusement at something Will Dixon might’ve thought about once. For the first time in his life, Daryl’s memory of the man who sired and raised him isn’t coated in fear, betrayal and sadness. He simply thinks, _ Oh, that old fuck, _and it’s not hateful. It’s not fond, neither, nothing like that. Just amused, like Will Dixon is a villain character in a movie who did something funny.

Jesus bought him a burger from a stand in Greater Whites, and it’s nothing like the burgers Daryl likes, but it’s food. He eats, trying his best not to dwell at the taste of burnt onions and old frying oil. He wonders if the stand was there when he was a pup running around the forest. Probably not; the smell of frying meat would’ve reached him eventually. Fuck, he thinks he would have loved a burger like this when he was ten years old. Back then, after mama was gone, all he got to eat were the things he caught by himself. Sometimes, that meant squirrels or rabbits. Other times, earthworms and ants. Anything to survive. Will Dixon didn’t believe in feeding his sons. He didn’t believe in many things. 

The cabin, when Daryl reaches it, is almost exactly as he remembers seeing it the last time. The roof is collapsed, the door is hanging off its hinges, both front-side windows are shattered. There’s more moss covering the walls and what remains of the roof, but besides that, it’s the same. Daryl almost expects to see Merle coming up from behind, hands bloody, eyes bright, a shovel propped against his shoulder.

_ What’cha starin’ at, lil’ bro? _He’d ask, and Daryl doesn’t know what he’d say. He didn’t know the first time around, neither, and so he didn’t say anything. He watched as Merle threw the shovel into the old tool shed - it’s still there, though it looks worse for the wear, - and then grabbed a bag. He started putting random shit inside, anything that might’ve had some value. Daryl’s beaten up walkman, Will Dixon’s fucking stamp collection, mama’s old jewelry box, everything. 

_ We’re leavin’, lil’ brother. Ain’t nothin’ keepin’ us here no more. _

Daryl wasn’t a pup anymore when it happened. He knew what Merle did. He knew what the blood on his brother’s hands meant. He just didn’t care. Years before that, he watched Will Dixon kill his wife. He dug that grave, he buried his mama in the yard behind the cabin where she could never even see her beloved ocean anymore. Watching Merle pack away all of their meager possessions, he knew that if he went out back there in that moment, he’d find two graves behind the cabin instead of one - and he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He didn’t even fully understand what it meant that Merle said: leaving. Where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do?

In the present, Daryl sighs softly and walks towards the back of the cabin. For the first time, he allows himself to look at where his father is buried, and he realizes nothing has changed since that day when Merle killed Will Dixon with his bare hands:

He still doesn’t care.

“Dunno what I expected,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. He bends over his mama’s grave and fixes the crooked stone marker. Her name is no longer written on the stone. Daryl didn’t expect it to be. He wrote it with a piece of coal, the only thing he had on hand, and it’s been a long time since he was around to rewrite it again and again after each rainfall. But it’s okay. Daryl doesn’t need his own shoddy handwriting to remind him of his mama’s name. He remembers. 

“Hello, Nadine,” he says softly, putting his hand on the stone. “Hello, mama.”

He sighs. Some great kinda therapy he invented for himself, talking to dead people. But whatever; he’s already here. Might as well do what he came here to do. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and then begins to talk.

He says, “I met someone, mama. Someone special. He‘s the best damn thin’ ever happened to me. So good it fuckin’ terrifies me,” he pauses and frowns. “Hope ya don’t mind my language. Uh,” he shakes his head. “Y’know what? Sure ya don’t mind, yer dead. Next time ya wanna complain ‘bout shit, make sure yer alive to tell me ‘bout it. Anyway. That someone I met. Rick. His name is Rick.”

Even just saying Rick’s name out loud makes his chest constrict in longing. He misses his mate like crazy, even more so after that dream… something. Which apparently really happened. They connected, they actually kissed even though there’s literally hundreds of miles between them. Or at least Rick had the same dream Daryl had.

Both options seem similarly implausible. And yet he’s got a couple of text messages in his phone as proof that it happened. Since when is Daryl’s life a damn fairytale?

He straightens, because crouching above the grave isn’t exactly comfortable. He doesn’t suppose he has to be right next to it to be heard. Or, not heard. He’s a shark, after all: sharks don’t believe in any sort of afterlife. Do they? Fuck. The longer he thinks about it, the more he realizes he doesn’t know anything about his own species. Bonds, dreams, afterlife. Addictive chemicals in his saliva. So much he wishes he could ask. So much he never wants to find out, too.

“Oh, mama, if only you were here,” he whispers and sighs. 

“Me ‘n Rick, we’re in trouble. We tried our best, but we fucked up so bad. Got ourselves fucked up good. Ain’t that how it was with you an’ him? You fucked up an’ look where that got ya. ‘Coupla feet underground right next to yer husband.”

_ At least, _ he thinks wickedly, _ they’s gonna be together forever. Two pitiful skeletons buried here for fuckin’ eternity. Kinda romantic, if ya wanna look it that way. _

He kicks a small rock with the tip of his foot and watches as it rolls away. He looks at the ants milling about aimlessly right where the rock was. A bit like people in their big cities. A bit like sharks in a feeding frenzy.

“Just, I came here lookin’ for, I dunno. Enlightenment, I guess. Answers. Sense of direction. But it ain’t here, innit? Nothin’ ain’t here no more,” he says after a moment, shaking his head.

“There won’t be no answers if you don’t ask yer questions,” says a voice from behind him, and Daryl turns around so fast he almost gives himself a whiplash. He didn’t hear anyone coming, so engrossed he was in his monologue. He just didn’t expect anyone to find him here. He left Jesus in Greater Whites with the truck, told him not to follow, and besides, this newcomer clearly isn’t Jesus. 

For one, she’s a woman. 

An old woman, but younger-looking than Daryl remembers from when they met the first time, not that long ago. Feels like a lifetime passed since then, but it must’ve been, what? A few weeks at most. She was wearing an apron then, and she had cream smeared all over her cheek. Now she’s dressed in all black. A widow’s black. It makes her look much more dignified than a tiny baker in a back alley in Atlanta. She’s beautiful, the way sculptures and paintings are beautiful. 

She doesn’t look like an old woman, no. She looks like a widowed queen.

“Lucille,” Daryl says and takes a step back.

“Easy, boy,” says Negan’s wife softly. “Didn’t come here to fight ya.”

Indeed, she sounds tired if anything. Definitely not like she wants to bite Daryl’s throat out in revenge, which he was worried about, for a moment there. 

“I don’t know what my husband did to y’all,” she says. “Heard some things. Rumors. Any of ‘em true?”

Daryl licks his lips, then nods, looking away. “Dunno what all ya heard, but. He gone did bad shit. Killed people.”

“I thought as much,” Lucille says, and sighs. 

She takes a few near-silent steps closer. Her feet don’t make a sound on the grass, and the way she treads reminds Daryl of how his mama used to teach him to hunt. 

_ Be a predator, lil’ one, _ mama told him. _ In the water, in the woods, ain’t no difference. If you can walk without makin’ no sound, that’s when you stop bein’ prey. _

“Always been wonderin’ what really happened to her,” Lucille says, indicating towards the two graves. “Ever since I found out she died, I always wondered. Thought she got what she deserved for a moment, y’know? When she got done ran off with that no good man, I convinced myself, _ good riddance. _ All the more handsome shark boys fer me, y’know what I mean?” She chuckles mirthlessly. 

“Shows how dumb I was. Least she got herself what I ain’t never got. Two boys, two lil’ pups she could teach to swim. Me, I got nothin’.”

“You had three,” Daryl points out. It comes out sharp, even though he didn’t intend it to. He’s not sure what is going on. Why is Negan’s wife here, talking to him about his mama like she knew her? Is this some sort of trap meant to lull him into a false feeling of safety, so that she can… what? Attack him, avenge her husband? Bury him here in a shallow grave right next to where his parents lie.

But then Lucille looks at him in surprise, and her eyes are sad when she says: “Dunno who told ya, but that ain’t the whole truth. My babies, they ain’t survived. Not one of ‘em. All died in childbirth.”

“That’s not what yer husband said,” Daryl protests. “He said that y’all killed off yer pups when they ain’t got the right teeth-”

“No,” Lucille says. She shakes her head, her lips turn up into a disbelieving smile. “No, that ain’t what happened. He wouldn’t,” she trails off, casting Daryl a pleading look, like she’s begging him to agree with her.

She’s frightened, because she must realize the horrible truth: _ he _would.

Daryl watches her. Her reaction seems genuine, and he feels bad, because if she really didn’t know… Fuck. What a way to find out. He said it easy enough only because he assumed she was a willing accomplice in all of Negan’s shit. But… what if she wasn’t? At least, not in this. Not in what happened to her pups.

He didn’t think he could hate Negan any more than he already did, and yet here he is. Even dead, that monster continues to cast long shadows.

“Please,” Lucille whispers. “Tell me it ain’t true. Tell me he ain’t murdered my babies.”

“I’m sorry,” Daryl replies, but it’s too late.

“Oh, no,” Lucille whimpers, and she collapses to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She goes down on her knees, hands going to clutch at her hair, and she begins to sob; and Daryl doesn’t know what to do. He takes a tentative step forward, then another, and he kneels by the old woman’s side. Slowly, hesitantly, he puts a hand on her shoulder in a clumsy attempt at comfort. It seems like he’s doing a piss-poor job at it when Lucille only sobs harder at that. Her whole body trembles as she wails, and it’s painful to listen to even though she’s a stranger. But maybe crying is what she needs, so Daryl doesn’t move. 

For a while, they stay like that: a widow mourning her pups and a man trying to offer what reassurance he can, and Daryl knows this all means something. 

Eventually, Lucille tires herself out crying. She wipes away the tears and snot with hands covered in dirt, and Daryl offers her a rag from his pocket. She accepts it gratefully and cleans her face. The make-up she was wearing is smeared, and she looks older now, even older than that first time Daryl saw her in the bakery in Atlanta when she still had a playful twinkle in her eyes.

“Haven’t cried like that since I found out she died,” Lucille whispers, motioning towards the graves with her head. “Not even for my babies. Guess it makes me a horrible mother, huh?”

“How did you know my mama?” Daryl asks. 

Lucille looks at him for a moment with unblinking, red-rimmed blue eyes, and then she chuckles softly, and sniffles. “Oh, dear boy. You’re not all too bright, seems to me. Just like yer mama. She had the looks, but not the brains. Got her into a world a’ trouble,” she says, and she sounds quite fond. “An’ yer just the same, I reckon.”

She begins to stand, and Daryl helps her to her feet. He holds her steady when Lucille sways a bit. 

“Thank you,” she says. Then she smiles at him, and Daryl thinks, much like Rick, she looks much younger when she smiles. 

Seeing that smile, so familiar, so nostalgic, he realizes finally, he knows her. Or rather, he knew someone who looked a whole lot like her.

“Ah, you get it now,” Lucille notes, nodding to herself, and her smile widens a little. 

“Nadine was my twin sister,” she explains, and the warmth seeping into her voice as she speaks is all the confirmation of the truth to what she’s saying. It sounds older than he remembers, a bit different in pitch, but it’s still easy for Daryl to imagine: this is what his mama would sound, were she still alive now.

“We were joined at the hip, as they say, Nadine an’ me. Swam together, hunted together, chased boys away together. We argued somethin’ fierce, but that’s just how siblings do,” Lucille says, eyes alight with memory. “We women sharks, we don’t start thinkin’ ‘bout mating until we’re all mature. We don’t get married before thirty years old, ‘cause why would we? And more importantly, we don’t go pursuin’ men. They’re supposed to be goin’ after us, yes? We’re to be seduced, and fought over, and all that. But Nadine, she always did as she pleased. Met that Will Dixon character when she was still shy of thirty, and she went about seducin’ him. Was already pregnant when she ran off with him.” She sighs. “She came to tell me she’s leavin’, but I told her she was stupid. Said, _ you wanna run off with that scoundrel, go, but don’cha come runnin’ back for my help when he shows true colors. _ I never told our mama, neither. I wonder, though. Maybe she wouldna gone, if I’d only kept my mouth shut. Maybe she wouldna left us.

“She still woulda,” Daryl says softly, thinking about how he would follow Rick to the world’s end if only Rick asked. If his mama was anything like him, if her feelings worked the same way as his do, then she would’ve done anything for Will Dixon, no matter what words her sister said to her in anger.

His mama’s sister Lucille. It’s almost too hard to believe.

“See, we were both the same kinda dumb in the end,” Lucille says wistfully. “Her no good husband got her killed. Mine m-murdered our babies.” She pauses and shakes her head. “Seems our luck ain’t been with the men in our lives.”

“He’s dead,” Daryl says softly. “I mean… both of them. My father, and Negan too.”

Lucille nods. “I know. They’s got what they deserved, I reckon,” she sighs. “Worst damn thing, this love stuff. You told me what he did, and I believe every word ‘cause I know what kinda person he was. But all the same, my heart aches an’ I miss him. Can’t seem to stop lovin’ him.”

“Dunno if it means anythin’,” Daryl murmurs, “but if I know one good thing ‘bout Negan, ‘s that he loved you.”

He reckons, that must be true. Daryl still remembers that time at Carol’s birthday party, the way Negan talked about his wife. He was a bastard, a monster, and he betrayed any kind of trust his wife had in him when he went for Rick in the end, but before all that, there had been a softness in his eyes as he told Daryl, _ she’s the love of my life. _

Lucille grabs his hand and squeezes it with her cool wiry fingers. “Thank you,” she says. She looks back at the graves one more time, and then she shakes her head. “Ain't like it matters no more, though I sure appreciate your kindness. Not what I expected when I found you here.”

“You knew I’d be here?” Daryl asks, a little surprised.

“Knew _ somethin’ _would be. Woke up this mornin’ with a feelin’,” Lucille smiles mysteriously. “Maybe Nadine wanted me to meet her son proper. Ain’t had no time for that before.”

She doesn’t elaborate, so Daryl is forced to accept that reply. Stranger things have happened than ghosts leading people to relatives they never knew about. Probably. Makes sense, if Daryl’s life really is turning into some sort of fucked up fairytale.

He asks, “How’d ya know she was here?” 

It’s not like the place is on any maps as anything else than a spot in the woods two miles out of Greater Whites. There’s no mailbox here. No official address. And even if there were, the grave markers are nothing but smooth stones on a two slightly raised mounds of dirt. He would’ve missed then if he didn’t know where to look, too.

“Hired a private eye when Nadine stopped callin’, an’ he tracked Will Dixon to this place. Never saw her ‘round, never found her, but I knew already,” Lucille explains. “As twins, we always had this kinda bond ‘tween us, so’s even when she was far away, I still coulda felt her. Echoes of her moods, sometimes. Mostly just that she was there, somewhere. Until one day, she’s not there no more.”

“Ain’t had nothin’ like that with my brother,” Daryl mutters. It makes him sad, but then, maybe it’s good. Losing Merle hurt both times: when Merle disappeared five years ago, and then when Rick told him how his brother died. Still hurts, although the most of his grief has subsided after he buried Merle’s things back in Santana in his own sort of goodbye. 

Maybe being able to feel some sort of a mystical bond with his brother, and then suddenly not feeling it anymore, would’ve made it all the worse.

“I feel like I have that with Rick, though,” he says slowly.

He almost doesn’t want to bring it up, in case Lucille tells him he’s delusional. Once already he believed there was a bond, a palpable, almost touchable bond between himself and his mate, and it turned out to just be Rick’s body’s reaction to a chemical in Daryl’s saliva. His own body was responding with distress to interrupted mating, but it was all hormones and wishful thinking. But last night, the dream they shared… Rick wrote to him about it, so it’s not all in Daryl’s head. He sensed Rick’s distress, and he responded to it, and they somehow connected, didn’t they? He made it better for Rick. He fought off Rick’s nightmares. 

“Sure ya do,” Lucille says simply.

Daryl looks at her sharply, surprised at the unexpected bluntness.

“Don’cha stare at me like that,” the woman scoffs and shakes her head. “I’m just sayin’, ‘s completely normal. It’s the kinda thing happens when mates are well matched. Don’cha know anything, boy?”

“I ain’t met another shark before all this,” Daryl reminds her. “I mean. Mama ain’t told me much ‘bout our kind. Daddy coulda heard, and he didn’t liked it at all, so mama just. Never said nothin’.”

“Ah, yes, figured ‘s much,” Lucille mutters. She hums thoughtfully and lifts a hand to twirl a strand of hair around the pointer finger. It’s the same gesture Daryl’s mama used to make when she was trying to come up with a viable explanation for something Daryl asked that she didn’t fully understand, or didn’t know how to put into words. Of course, he didn’t realize for a long time that it was a tic. He just thought playing with her hair helped her think.

Seems like Lucille shares that trait with her late twin. 

“Well, now ya know,” she says slowly. “‘s one of the signs, really, when the pairing’s good. Bonds don’t form when y’all ain’t suited to be mates. Still can mate, I mean, biologically nothin’ can stop ya. But mama always told us, it ain’t worth it without the connection.” 

“And, um, is it normal,” Daryl asks, trails off, and rephrases: “Does our kind make some sorta… addictive thing, that goes in our saliva? Like, stuff that makes ‘em humans love us forever, an’ umm. Y’know what I mean.”

Lucille looks at him and actually smirks at that. 

“Oh I know what’cha mean,” she admits with amusement. “‘s just you boys makin’ it, though. For mating,” she explains. “‘cause we girls, shark or no shark, we know y’all don’t got much to offer us ‘sides what’s in yer trousers. That saliva thing, ‘s to convince us to like you long enough to actually wanna have sex with you more than once. To keep havin’ sex with you so as to make babies.”

“... oh,” Daryl says.

He blushes. _ Make babies. _That’s not something he and Rick can accomplish, but fuck if they didn’t like, try. They sure did have a lot of sex. 

“Of course, it ain’t start comin’ until y’all are actually mated to each other,” Lucille adds. “You do know what it takes to mate, yes? Seein’ how you managed to accomplish it well enough.”

Feeling his cheeks flush harder, Daryl shakes his head. He knows Rick is his mate. He knows the various meanings of the word, too. But, to be honest, he doesn’t know how exactly Rick went from being the _ beautiful man _ he wanted, to _ mate. _What changed. 

“A bite,” Lucille says. “Well, it don’t begin with a bite, it begins with a fight,” she clarifies. She twirls her hair again. “Boys fight for the right to mate with a girl, an’ then whoever wins gets bitten. It’s how it goes.”

“Ain’t nothin’ like that happened though,” Daryl says, frowning.

“Well, it might’ve gone different with yours ‘cause he ain’t no girl,” Lucille tells him. “Ya ain’t had to fight nobody for him? He’s a pretty man, sure there had to be some kinda competition?”

_ Not really, _ Daryl thinks, but then he remembers - _ Joe. _And, yeah, it wasn’t exactly competition, but he did fight Joe for Rick. After all, Joe was a mean old shark and he wanted to kill Rick just because he could. He had big teeth, and Daryl didn’t, but they fought and Daryl won. Would that count? Fuck, who judges these things? 

But the bite thing. Did Rick ever really bite him? Nipped, sometimes, more playful-like than anything serious, Daryl's sure of that. Definitely not like sharks bite each other. Nothing to leave a scar. Nothing that could be taken as a part of a mating ritual.

Although... He bit himself, once, he remembers. The urge to bite Rick was overwhelming, and he bit himself, and it healed alright, no scar, no nothing. Meaningless, that, but the morning after that, when they had sex. _Yeah. _They had so much sex, more than once, that night, the morning after all that with the bite; and that morning, Rick bit him, right over the collarbone, and it didn't break skin, but there was a bruise there later. A dark bruise shaped into an imprint of Rick's teeth.

“I think… I get it,” he mutters, to Lucille’s questioning look. 

The woman nods in approval. “Good. Though it don't matter in the end, how it happened. Just that you're mated."

She looks behind him at the graves, then back up at Daryl. "I’m sure you got more things you wanna ask,” she says. “But I think, I need to go back to bein' alone for a while now. Got a lot of thinkin' to do, 'bout what you told me." A shadow passes over her face when she remembers the fate of the children she had with her late husband. Lucille shakes her head and smiles at Daryl weakly. "Maybe you should go home to yer mate. There ain't no more answers left here. Just a couple stones and a sad story.”

She rummages through her purse for a few moments and finally hands Daryl a little rectangular piece of paper. A business card for the bakery in Atlanta, it seems, with the shop’s name and a phone number printed in nice, elegant lettering. 

“Call me,” Lucille demands. “Stay in touch. I made a mistake tellin’ Nadine off, and I’m gonna be regrettin’ it until my dyin’ day. But I don’t wanna regret you.”

“I’ll call,” Daryl promises. He pockets the card, already certain that when he makes that call, Rick will be there with him. Rick should get to know Daryl’s newfound relative, too. Negan’s wife. Rick deserves to hear her apology, and hell, she deserves closure on the chapter of her late husband, too. Negan hurt them all, it seems.

But, speaking of Rick, “When we met that first time in yer bakery, ya called Rick my mate. How come ya knew that?”

Lucille blinks, surprised at the question, and then she chuckles fondly - and sounds a lot like Daryl’s mama as she does, like Daryl’s mama when she thought Daryl asked something really silly. She smiles up at him and pats him on the cheek. 

She says, “How could I not know? Way y’all smelled of one another, anyone could tell. Besides, I knew who ya were, an’ believe you me, you had the same cowed look Nadine had for that no good daddy of yours. Woulda recognized it anywhere.”

Daryl smiles back, nuzzling into his aunt’s hand. Her touch feels nice. Welcoming and familiar, and he misses his mama, but it feels almost like he got a part of her back. 

He frowns at what she said, though. “Hold up. What’cha mean, ya knew who I was?”

Lucille laughs at that. “Oh, dear boy. Of course I knew,” she says, and stands on her toes to plant a little kiss on his cheek. “You look just like your mama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all like Daryl's aunt Lucille, because this is not the last we've seen of her. There's another important development with her, coming soon.  
And also... magical bond is a fact! 
> 
> Oh, and for clarification, here's a little thing with some character's ages, in case anyone got confused:  
Daryl - 30 years old, Rick is probably a little younger, about 28-29 maybe (dunno, I always seem to go with the "Daryl is older than Rick because actors" thing, though I suppose it doesn't really matter in this case);  
Negan - 38, Lucille - 64, and she was 44 when she married Negan;  
Nadine - she was 27 when she got with Will Dixon, who was 26 at the time. When Merle was born, she was 28, and then 34 when Daryl was born, which means Merle was 36.


	43. Chapter 43

The drive back home feels so much lighter than the way to Georgia did. Daryl thinks it might be because he’s positively brimming with new information, new feelings, new, well, _ everything. _He went on this little pilgrimage thing to bury the last of his blood relatives, to say goodbye to his brother and to their mama who he never managed to properly mourn; now he’s going back home armed with the knowledge that he’s not the last of his family left in the world.

And so much more besides that.

“Next thing I know, you’re going to start singing along to the radio,” Jesus observes drily. 

He’s still in a sour mood, sourer even, now that they’re heading back home. He’s not ready to go back. The little getaway didn’t do anything to convince him of his place with Aaron and Eric, it seems. The realization makes Daryl instantly feel bad. 

Relationships are… so much more complicated than even the most convoluted plots of romantic comedies could’ve prepared him for. Of course, Daryl doesn’t miss the time when he didn’t have to navigate all this emotional stuff - he can’t imagine _ not _having Rick, anymore, and more than that: he doesn’t want to; but he has to admit, those days, everything was simpler. He only had to worry about convincing a pair of sharks to like each other. None of that “my three friends are in love but there’s a fuckton of stuff preventing them from being happy together” bullshit. Just Daryl, Henry and Lydia secretly swimming in the Biter Tank every night.

Now, there’s all this drama. Some of it is with himself and Rick, sure, but that’s manageable. They’re managing. They have this magical connection stuff, and Rick’s dreams are Daryl’s dreams now. So they’re gonna be fine. Jesus is the real problem here. Jesus and his issues. 

Daryl can understand fear of abandonment. He can, he was abandoned by people plenty of times himself. Maybe that’s why he wants things to work out for his friend. He knows he’s not responsible for other people’s issues, but, fuck it. He wants to solve this. 

He’s gonna solve this. He just doesn’t know how, yet. Hopefully, something would give before they arrive back in Virginia Beach.

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry,” Jesus says when they pass a sign for some diner place two miles ahead.

“Could eat,” Daryl agrees. “Man, I miss Abe’s steakhouse.”

“Aren’t we prohibited from going there? You know, out of solidarity?...” Jesus asks, frowning.

Daryl shrugs. “Ain’t no-one’s business what I do in my off time,” he mutters defensively. “Plus, Abe’s a friend now, right? He got y’all on that ship to save me.”

“True,” Jesus agrees. His eyes light up when he remembers something. “Son of a bitch! He promised us a feast after everything. His treat. Even said you were invited.”

“Hey, what’cha mean _ even me. _Abe adores me,” Daryl protests.

Jesus laughs, which is such a relief to hear, Daryl almost doesn’t mind that the man is probably laughing at him. 

“Oh, man,” Jesus says finally, wiping an actual tear from the corner of his eye. Who the fuck cries out of amusement? Well, apparently Jesus does. Daryl doesn’t think it’s normal. Or is it? He certainly never cried for such a dumbass reason, but he can sort of imagine Rick’s pretty blue eyes brimming with tears at something funny. 

And now he can’t wait to see Rick laughing to the point of tears, to be honest.

“Wasn’t even that funny,” he grumbles good-naturedly, and Jesus pats him on the arm.

“I know,” he admits. “It’s called situational humor, I think. Or I’m just hysterical.”

_ Might be both, _Daryl thinks but doesn’t say. He just puts a hand on Jesus’ forearm and squeezes lightly in hopes that the affectionate gesture will be comforting enough. 

“Good thing ya didn’t crashed the car with all that laughin’,” he says instead. 

Jesus chuckles, and shakes his head, and takes the exit leading to the diner.

It’s not a very high-standard place, it’s just a food stop which caters mostly to truckers. It’s not a bad thing, because despite the generally unappealing decor, the place actually offers a wide selection of greasy, deep-fried meat dishes for reasonable prices. Daryl selects three positions from the menu, keeping it light: spaghetti balls, pork chops and ribs, all of them breaded and deep-fried, and, according to Jesus: completely disgusting. Just the way Daryl likes. Jesus, for his part, orders fried chicken with a side of Belgian fries, to which Daryl looks at him strangely. Wasn’t fried chicken supposed to be fancy date food? That’s what Daryl always thought. Rick would’ve told him if he got it wrong that time at the beginning… wouldn’t he?

Fuck. Did Merle only tell him that to fuck with him? And Rick didn’t want to offend him or something… but he probably laughed at Daryl’s dumb assumption for hours. Ugh. _ Damn it, Merle. _

“I feel like I’m having a heart attack just from looking at your plates,” Jesus informs him. He doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about his own food once it’s served, either. Everything is dripping with oil, a mix of some plant-based oil and lard as far as Daryl can tell from the smell. It’s not burnt, though, not like what they used for burgers back in Greater Whites, so there’s no room for complaint. At least not to Daryl. He’s lucky enough to have a digestive system running mostly on fatty acids and proteins.

Humans? It’s a wonder they don’t drop dead from a single bite or something, with their weak-ass stomachs not used to digesting copious amounts of fat.

Daryl chuckles. “If you were gonna whine, you shoulda just ordered a salad.”

Jesus rolls his eyes, but after a moment, a positively lecherous smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “I like some good meat in my mouth, if you catch my drift,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. 

Daryl… doesn’t catch his drift. He gets that it’s supposed to be some sort of innuendo, but he isn’t sure what it refers to. Unless… Blinking, Daryl casts a quick look down to his crotch. They can’t be calling those bits down there _ meat, _can they? He looks up across the table at Jesus, who winks at him lewdly. 

Okay. So they can.

“Yer ridiculous,” Daryl announces, and chomps down on a rib. Their booth is somewhat secluded, so he doesn’t suppose it’s much of a problem that he eats it whole, bone and all. The fact that Jesus sort of winces at the crunching noises is a bonus.

“Yeah, yeah,” the man agrees. “You’re just bitter ‘cause you haven’t sucked Rick off yet. Am I right?”

Daryl groans. He’s so_ not _ discussing this, especially not in a random-ass diner in the middle of nowhere. Even though it might be a little bit true. During that wonderful vacation period, Rick wasn’t especially receptive to the idea of Daryl trying to put his mouth near his sensitive bits - well, _ most of them; _and afterwards, well. They haven’t done anything but sleeping in the same bed. Plus, Daryl thinks now, he should’ve bought some cucumbers and practiced. He could get it right eventually, he knows he could.

Shit, what he wouldn’t give for one of those prosthetic teeth covers Negan had! He has to ask Eric if maybe anything like that survived the purge in the labs. 

“There you go, all dreamy-eyed when you think about him,” Jesus says, and he’s smiling as he shakes his head. “Man, nobody else ever stood a chance. That guy just swooped in and stole your heart proper. It’s pathetic to watch. Cute, mind you, but really a little pathetic.”

“Eat your food,” Daryl snaps at him. 

Jesus chuckles, but obediently shoves a fry in his mouth. 

They finish their food without hurry, bantering about random shit all throughout it. It’s nice, to be able to feel so light-hearted. Only yesterday, Daryl’s chest felt heavy with grief over the loss of his brother; but he buried Merle’s things with Katie Davies, and with them, the sorrow. He’s filled with optimism now, with hope for the future; he can sort of already see himself and Rick adopting that baby girl and raising her together. He’d teach her to swim, and hell, he’d teach Rick, too. It’s so stupid, living by the ocean and not knowing how to swim. Yeah, he’s teaching Rick, regardless of whether they adopt a pup or not.

“Wait in the truck,” Jesus says when they’re ready to head out. “I’ll be back soon,” he assures and indicates the restrooms. 

Daryl shrugs and nods, and goes back to the car. He checks his phone for the time - almost noon, which means they’ve got a good few hours to go before they’re back in Virginia Beach. He can see why some people prefer to travel by planes. He still doesn’t, but he can appreciate the notion to choose a means of travel that conserves time. 

Sharks aren’t meant to fly, though. He’s firmly sticking to land and sea, thanks very much.

_ Gonna be home before night, _he types in a text to Rick, and he leans against the passenger side door of the truck. He knows his mate is probably busy, so he doesn’t expect an immediate reply. Just thought it would be polite to inform him. 

Rick answers within thirty seconds, though:

_ I can’t wait to see you. _

Then, as Daryl’s mouth stretches into a grin so wide it puts all of his teeth on display, another message arrives:  
_ Carl’s going to be here tomorrow, btw. He’ll stay all summer. Do you mind? _

“Pffft,” Daryl huffs to himself. Of course he doesn’t mind. Rick’s son is an awesome pup. He spent a couple days in Rick’s house after the hospital, but he had to go back to finish the school year. It was a fun time. They played Monopoly which Daryl doesn’t really get, so he cheated a lot. He still lost horribly every time, but it was fine because it meant he could watch the father and son playing against each other. In those moments, it was like nothing bad had ever happened; only the bandaged stump in place of Rick’s right hand reminded them about the horrible events that took place on The Queen.

Carl doesn’t know exactly what transpired. He just knows Rick’s hand is gone, and Negan won’t be visiting ever again, but that’s it. Rick and Daryl haven’t had a chance to talk about what to tell him yet. The truth won’t make sense without revealing what Daryl is, and Daryl doesn’t mind sharing the secret with Rick’s pup, but it’s not his decision. It’s Rick’s. So they’ll have to talk about it later.

Right now, though, Daryl can only type a very enthusiastic _ Gonna be fun! Sophia will wanna show him around, that a problem? _

_ Of course not! It’s great he already has a friend his age here. He’d grow very bored spending all the time with his old man, _is what Rick replies with, and Daryl chuckles. 

_ Old man my ass, _he types.

_ What about your ass? _Rick asks, and adds a winking smiley face, and Daryl can’t help but roll his eyes even as he blushes. This is Rick being flirtatious. It’s a disaster. And Daryl loves it so much. 

_ Whatever you want, man, _he promises, biting his lower lip. He hopes he’s not being too forward. After all, they have yet to kiss after that whole Negan business. But Rick started it, so it’s probably okay for Daryl to like, flirt back, yeah? Even if he’s really bad at it, too.

“Dude, are you sexting your man?” Jesus asks, opening the driver’s side door to the truck. Daryl hasn’t even heard him approaching, so engrossed he was in the text messages from his mate. 

“I swear I could see your blush from the diner’s windows. Cut it out, no sex in my truck,” Jesus demands, and Daryl lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“Ain’t sextin’,” he lies. At least he thinks he’s lying. He’s not completely one hundred percent sure _ sexting _means what he thinks it means. Or, well, if it does, he doesn’t know if flirting and mentioning asses counts as sexting. 

“Uh-huh,” Jesus mutters. “Sure. Get in the car, loverboy. Let’s get you back to Rick before you pitch a tent here. It might give people the wrong idea if they see.”

Now, _ pitching a tent _is a phrase Daryl knows. Merle used it. He’s also vaguely aware what it means, and he’s pretty sure his blush deepens to the reddest red anyone’s ever seen on a face. He mutters a denial under his breath and gets in the car, glaring at Jesus hotly. 

“Straight home now?” Jesus asks, ignoring him. 

Daryl looks at the phone, hums thoughtfully, and nods. “I guess,” he agrees. “Think there’s a video game store on the way, though? Rick’s pup likes ‘em consoles and shit.”

Jesus grabs his tablet and types something into the search box. After a few seconds, he smiles. “We’ve got Best Buy, Target and Walmart all in Virginia Beach if you want to try there. And there’s a GameStop too, if you’re looking for something more specialized.”

“Man, I dunno,” Daryl groans. “There’s supposed to be this game ‘bout sea exploration, wanted to grab that for Carl. It got sharks in it.”

“That’s not very specific,” Jesus says, but he puts the tablet away and starts the car. “I guess we’ll just hit that Best Buy, it’s the closest to the Institute.”

Daryl nods in agreement, already regretting the idea. All he wants is to go back home and into Rick’s arms. He’s not really down for store browsing in search of something he doesn’t even know how to recognize. He doesn’t even know what kind of console Carl has, because he’s sure there are many of those around - life can never be so easy. 

Oh, well. He’ll improvise. He’s got enough money; worst case scenario, he’ll just buy a console to match the game. 

They cross the Virginia state line some time past three, and they make a short stop because Jesus needs to pee. Daryl takes the opportunity to call Sophia, ask her if she wants any games, too. It’s been a while since she got any unwarranted gifts to be spoiled with and anyway, she’s probably got an all-A report card or whatever the thing is called. The thing that says her grades are good. She’s got that, Daryl’s sure, because Sophia is crazy smart. 

“Honestly, I just want ice-cream,” the girl says when Daryl asks what to buy. “And you know we’re going swimming this weekend, don’t you? You promised you’d teach me.”

Daryl did promise. He’s actually quite excited about it. “You mind if we take Rick an’ Carl along? Gotta teach Rick to swim, too.”

“Well, of course you’re taking your boyfriend,” Sophia says, and Daryl can _ hear _the eye-rolling going on there on the other side of the line. “Carl’s okay, too, for a boy.”

With that established, they say quick goodbyes and see-you-soons, and Daryl has a moment to send a quick text to Rick, asking about consoles and shit. There’s no reply, though, so he sits back and waits for Jesus to return. 

He thinks, strangely, about his mama. What Lucille said, most of all: about the saliva thing being something only men have. Which means Daryl’s mama did not make Will Dixon addicted. That wasn’t what their relationship was. It’s both a relief and, well, not; Daryl’s glad to finally know that his mama wasn’t the type of woman to force someone to love her, but, fuck. He sort of got used to all that being an explanation for why Will Dixon killed her. Now there’s no explanation again, at least none other than _ Will Dixon was a murderous bastard, _and it makes Daryl feel a bit hollow inside. 

His daddy was a murderer for no reason other than _ because he could, _and that’s why his mama died. What a pointless fucking death. 

At least there’s a positive side to knowing all this, too: Lucille was very _ very _sure that the saliva thing wouldn’t have started before Rick and him were already mated, and obviously Daryl isn’t about to question his aunt’s expertise. She’s been a shark for much longer than him and she has information Daryl was never entreated to. 

He wonders what else she could tell him and, more importantly, what else she could tell Rick. Because Rick’s the one more interested in Daryl’s origins and all that. He did all that research with the mythology books. He liked it. He’d probably enjoy finding out more from a reliable source. Maybe he could base a novel off of it? Hopefully one where shark people don’t kill anybody, this time. 

The Best Buy store Jesus ends up taking him to is in a part of the city Daryl hasn’t really been in before. To be honest, he doesn’t usually stray far from the Institute. Even Rick’s place is close by, no more than a twenty minute walk away, and Daryl mostly just goes back and forth between the two locations. Sometimes he hits Abe’s steakhouse with Rick, but that’s not very far away either. Which means the big store is about as familiar to him as another city entirely would be.

And obviously, it’s packed with people, complete with the noises and smells and electric impulses crowds tend to produce.

“I don’t like it,” Daryl mutters, and he grabs Jesus by the wrist to not get lost. He doubts he’d manage to find his way back to his friend if he got lost among the human masses. 

“Yeah, there must be a sale or something,” Jesus says. He looks at Daryl’s hand, then takes it in his, twining their fingers together. “Hold on to me. No worries. I’ll take you to the video game section, we grab what we need real quick, and we’re out.”

Daryl nods, and they head into the swarm of people, cutting through the crowd like a couple of sharks going straight for a shoal - only with less teeth and more _ excuse me I’m just passing through- _s. Despite Jesus’ conviction that he knows where everything is, they eventually end up in a photography section of the store. 

The good part of it is, it’s virtually empty. The bad… well. It’s on the other side of the store from the video games section, as it soon turns out when Jesus asks an employee.

“I swear, man, they changed the layout,” Jesus explains sheepishly. 

“‘s okay,” Daryl says, and looks at the cameras on display. He wonders if some of them would be good to use underwater. He could take some nice photos with Henry and Lydia before they’re released into the wild. But then again, he can just ask Aaron to take photos with those drone things they got at the Institute. Might even be easier than taking - what were they called? - _ selfies, _ with sharks. 

There’s a tripod on one of the displays, some sort of high-quality upper shelf model with improved mobility and made of carbon fiber. At least that’s what the ad displayed next to it states. _ A tripod for professional, _ it says. Daryl couldn’t care less about all the features it comes with. To him, it could play songs, serve coffee and dance the macarena, he wouldn’t be any more impressed. 

What draws his attention is the construction of tripods in general. 

“Y’know,” he says, motioning for Jesus to look at the thing as well. “This shit reminds me of y’all. I mean. You with Eric an’ Aaron.”

“What the hell? Why?” Jesus asks, frowning in obvious confusion.

“‘s the legs. Like,” Daryl says, and struggles a little with an explanation. It seemed like a great idea to point out the similarity immediately, but he regrets not taking a moment to think of how to word it before he started talking. Now Jesus is looking at him with a dubious expression, and Daryl groans. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, and bites down on his lower lip.

“No, tell me,” Jesus demands. “Come on, you started, you have to finish now. I’m curious about how your mind works, man. What about the legs?”

Daryl sighs, but tries again. “Thing’s got three of ‘em, yeah?” He asks. When Jesus nods, he goes on: “Well, ‘s just that. Look, it got ‘em three legs and the thing’s as stable as it can be, yes? Has to be, ‘cause it holds all this expensive shit on top. Like, camera and stuff. Wouldn’t wanna have it topple and break. So, it has ‘em three legs like that.”

“Yes, Daryl, I know how a tripod works,” Jesus says. “You have a point in all that?”

“Headin’ there, so shut up and listen,” Daryl snaps. He licks his lips. “It all works ‘cause the tripod’s got three legs, man. All ‘em three legs are just as important. You get me? The thing wouldna work if one leg was gone. Would just collapse, no two ways about it.”

“There are four-legged tripods,” Jesus points out. 

Daryl growls, impatient. “Ain’t what I’m talkin’ about here! Fuck, yer really makin’ it difficult.”

“I’m fucking with you,” Jesus says, squeezing his hand which he’s still holding. He smiles, and it seems genuine if a little teasing. Whatever; Daryl can take some mockery if it means the dumb bastard finally gets what he’s been trying to say.

“Yer like one leg of the tripod, man,” he insists. “Eric and Aaron, they’s the other two. And yeah, I guess ya can just like, take off one leg and prop the thing against a wall or something. It would stand, but wouldn’t serve its purpose none. Right? It needs all three legs to be what it’s supposed to be.”

“They were fine before I knew them, though,” Jesus reminds him softly. “They’d be fine without me, too.”

“Yeah, I was fine before I met Rick,” Daryl says, “but that ain’t gotta mean I’d be fine if I lost him now. Shit, man, it don’t even mean I woulda been fine goin’ on without ever meetin’ him. And don’cha say it’s different. It ain’t. Love is love.”

Jesus doesn’t say anything to the contrary though, he just blinks, and hums thoughtfully. 

“Love is love, huh,” he repeats under his breath, more to himself than to Daryl. 

Then he shrugs. “Come on, let’s get that game you wanted before that last wave of people get to the check-out. We don’t want to be stuck here forever.”

Daryl sighs, a bit frustrated that he probably didn’t get through to Jesus with his stupid tripod metaphor, and follows his friend to the video game section of the store.

They end up buying a console and three games. Two have nice ocean-y pictures on the covers and the third one is a hunting game. Daryl likes hunting a lot. There aren't many places around Virginia Beach where he could take Carl and Rick hunting, though, so he supposes the game will have to do. 

After a half hour wasted waiting in the check-out queue, they’re finally back in the car. Jesus turns on the radio one last time and he actually hums along to one of the songs. It’s a rock ballad about love, so maybe something of what Daryl said actually stuck. _ Yeah, it’s always better when we’re together, _the dude on the radio sings and Jesus smiles as he hums along, and Daryl can’t help but smile too. 

They arrived at the Institute’s gates soon after that. Daryl gets out of the car and grabs his stuff. He walks up to the driver’s side door and looks down at Jesus.

“Thanks for everythin’, man,” he says, and he means it. He could’ve made this trip alone, he supposes. He could’ve gone on his own, could’ve taken a train or hitched a ride. But with Jesus, it was better. He had a friend to talk to, a companion down the memory lane, and he feels like this trip sort of cemented his friendship with Jesus the same way mauling Ed cemented his friendship with Carol ten years ago. 

They’re family. Not by blood, but blood isn’t everything. Daryl knows that. 

“No, Daryl,” Jesus says, offering him a smile. “I should be thanking you. I mean, I’d work on the metaphors if I were you, the tripod thing was Goddamn terrible… but you know what? I’m going to go there and talk to them, and we’re going to resolve this. Because I need those two self-sacrificing idiots.”

“They need ya too,” Daryl assures him. “They’d prob’ly get themselves killed without you there to kick their asses to gear.”

Jesus chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right. So I’d better go and make sure they’re not getting in trouble. You alright from here?”

Daryl nods. He’s more than alright, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming next: Daryl finally goes back to Rick! It feels like he was gone for weeks, but it's only been a day. How is Rick going to react to seeing him again? (Let's be real there. We all know how.)


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter gave me some attitude, but I wrangled it into submission so here it goes:  
The long-awaited reunion!

The twenty-minute walk from the Institute to Rick’s house feels much longer than usual. The anticipation is making Daryl dizzy; he knows, rationally, that he left yesterday, so he only hasn’t seen his mate for a day. Rationality doesn’t seem to have any bearing on how much he already misses Rick. A day, a week, a month, it doesn’t really matter because Daryl is a clingy fucker. He’s probably going to miss Rick every time his mate goes out shopping without him, or anything like that.

It’s a bit crazy, but fuck it. Daryl knows now that he’s wired differently than most people, and he supposes he can live with it.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he knocks on Rick’s door. He knows it’s not locked, and even if it were, he’s got the key somewhere in the backpack; that’s not why he’s knocking. He thought about it, during the drive and then just now, as he walked, and he decided this is how it will work best. Because he’s ready to go back to Rick’s life like he never walked out of it for even the shortest moment, but this way, he’s giving Rick the option of letting him back in - or not. Of course, he’s got no idea what he’s going to do if Rick decides  _ not  _ to let him in, but, fuck. He’ll eat that tuna when he catches it. 

The door opens and Rick is there, and he looks… different, somehow. His beard is less wild, though still present, just trimmed, and his hair might be a bit shorter. He’s dressed in a pair of Daryl’s jeans and a t-shirt with ripped-off sleeves: definitely Daryl’s, too. His stump is freshly bandaged, but the bandage is blue. Not some faded pale blue color, neither. No, it’s sky blue, the hue almost matching the exact shade of Rick’s pretty eyes.

When he sees Daryl, he smiles the brightest, most beautiful smile.

“You’re back,” he says, and before Daryl can reply, before he can do anything, really - Rick pulls him close and kisses him, soft lips and an insistent tongue pushing into his mouth. It’s impossible to deny him this, to resist, and even if Daryl had any leftover doubts about the moral implications of kissing his mate, he just… gives in, because he can’t not. Rick smells like love and desire and joy all at once, and he tastes like a heady mix of chocolate and mint, with an underlying sweetness that doesn’t seem to be neither. He kisses Daryl like he never wants to stop, and damn, but Daryl thinks he could remain like this forever, with his mate’s arms all around him, their bodies pressed together, tasting each other. 

The need for air wins against the fervor of their love, however, and they finally part. Rick presses a flurry of small, sweet kisses to Daryl’s jawline as they both breathe too fast, and Daryl combs Rick’s curly hair with his hand. 

“Well, I don’t feel any different,” Rick says finally, offering him another smile that could rival the sun with its brightness.

Daryl frowns, confused. “From what?”

“From before I kissed you,” Rick explains. “In case you were worried. I kissed you, I swallowed your saliva, and I don’t feel any different than a moment before.”

“Oh,” Daryl says. “As in… ya love me the same, right?”

He’s not insecure or anything. He’s just asking to make sure.

“Yes, darlin’,” Rick assures him, rolling his eyes just a little. Like he thinks it’s something obvious that doesn’t need to be said, but he’s humoring Daryl all the same.

They kiss again, slower this time, more exploratory; it feels like they’re familiarizing themselves with each other again, re-discovering what the other enjoys most about the intimacy they share. Daryl sighs in contentment when Rick runs his tongue very carefully over the sensitive gums of his second row of teeth which are still detracted; Rick, in return, moans softly into the kiss when Daryl sucks on his lower lip. They both groan when Rick bites down on Daryl’s tongue, not hard enough to cause pain, just enough for Daryl to feel the pressure of his mate’s blunt teeth.

Finally Rick draws back and they realize at the same time that they’re still standing at the doorway, likely giving a show to any curious neighbors who might be watching. Daryl chuckles a little breathlessly and lands a quick kiss on Rick’s forehead before he sidesteps his mate to go inside the house.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Rick says, amused and just as breathless. “You’re inviting yourself in now, aren’t you? Not even going to ask if you’re welcome?”

“Know I’m welcome,” Daryl replies, keeping his voice light and teasing. “Way yer smellin’, seems to me I’m  _ very  _ welcome. In fact, ain’t sure how far inside I’m gonna make it afore ya pounce on- oof!”

Indeed, even before he manages to finish the sentence, Rick has already pounced on him, pressing him quite easily against the wall by the door. 

“You were saying?” The man says smugly. His eyes have gone dark with arousal, the scent of it filling Daryl’s nostrils.

“Ya sure it ain’t the drug thing?” Daryl asks softly. He feels like he has to make doubly sure; after all, Rick made it from fairly normal to horny as fuck all within a couple blinks. Fast enough to make Daryl worry a bit. 

“Mhm,” Rick hums in reply. “I was thinking about this before you came home,” he confesses. “Thinking about how I’d get to touch you again. You’re not getting away, darlin’, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Shouldn’t we like, talk ‘bout shit first?” Daryl suggests. Not that he doesn’t want Rick to have his way with him; fuck, but he wants that  _ a lot.  _ Thing is, he’s not sure Rick’s in the right state of mind, and there’s a lot they need to discuss anyway,  _ and  _ he’s still holding on to the damn heavy bag from Best Buy which he somehow managed not to drop just yet.

There’s no need to rush things, is what he thinks. He’s back now, he’s never leaving again for nothing, and Rick can have him any time he wants. 

“Can you talk while I blow you?” Rick asks, tilting his head. How the fuck he’s able to say shit like that without blushing, Daryl has no idea. 

“Rick,” he protests without much conviction. He’s weak and his mate is incredibly sexy. It’s almost enough to make him stop caring whether it’s all induced by real feelings, or rather by hormones and drugs and shit.  _ Almost.  _

“Rick, we really should talk first,” he says more firmly, and he pushes his mate away very gently. Keeps him at arm’s length in case Rick wants to try and kiss him again to melt his resolve. It’s feeble enough without any additional assault against it right now.

Rick looks at him and finally sighs, defeated. “Okay then,” he says, “let’s talk. I can even make tea so it’s more civil if you like.”

“Don’t be like that,” Daryl mutters. “Ain’t like I’m sayin’ we gotta be celibate forever. Wouldna work, neither, ‘cause damn if I can resist ya for that long. Just… wanted to catch up? Ten minutes, then you can do what’cha want with me. Anythin’.”

To that, Rick smiles again. It’s positively wicked, that smile. 

“Oh, I have many ideas,” he promises in a low voice that sends a pleasant shiver down Daryl’s spine. But, true to his word, he backs away; he heads to the kitchen and Daryl follows, wondering if he’s not being stupid about all of this. He could be doing pleasant sexual things with his mate right now. Instead, he’s worrying over things he was so sure were already deemed a non-issue when he was on the road.

Even if it’s his saliva heightening Rick’s lust for him, so what? They’re mates, for fuck’s sake, even Lucille called them well-matched _ ,  _ they have a real magical psychic bond and everything. Means most of that lust is actually real, not caused by Daryl’s weird biological response. That’s what Lucille said. She said it’s just to keep a mate interested, not to  _ make him  _ feel anything. 

He’s overthinking it again. Running in circles, again. He thought he was over it, but apparently not. Damn it.

“Bought a gift for Carl,” he mutters, handing Rick the bag with the console and stuff. He tosses the backpack under the table to be dealt with later. There’s nothing important inside there anyway. 

Rick looks inside the bag curiously, then huffs in surprised laughter. “You bought him a PlayStation? Oh, he’s going to love you, darlin’. He’s going to declare you his new dad, just you wait.”

“I… would be fine with it,” Daryl says softly. 

Rick blinks, then smiles at him. “Good,” he decides.

“There was a baby,” Daryl says, because it seems as good a time to bring it up as any. “In the lab, they had a lil’ girl. She ain’t a shark, Jesus said they’ll double-check, but she can prob’ly just breathe underwater, she ain’t like me. D’ya think…”

“Yes?” Rick asks, looking at Daryl intently. The expression on his face is unreadable, closed off all of a sudden, and Daryl isn’t sure he should really say what’s been on his mind. But then again, if he can’t talk to Rick freely, their whole relationship makes no sense, does it? They should always be able to tell each other things. That’s how a relationship is supposed to work.

“We could adopt her,” he says quickly. “After Eric like, makes sure she’s all healthy and all that. And um, as soon as you’re all fine. I mean, you’re the priority, Rick. ‘course I ain’t gonna dump a pup on ya when you’re still in need of help an’ shit. Just… somethin’ to consider.”

Rick licks his lips, nodding, and turns towards the counter. He opens a cupboard and grabs a bar of chocolate in blue packaging. It’s one of the gifts from back when he was in hospital. He holds it in his left hand and, lacking another hand to do it, tears off the wrapper with his teeth. He spits it out on the counter, then bites into the chocolate bar. He turns to face Daryl, then, and offers the bar to him.

“Uh, no, thanks,” Daryl murmurs.

Rick rolls his eyes. “As you wish,” he says with his mouth full. He waits a moment, letting the chocolate melt in his mouth, then chews the leftovers and swallows. “Mmm, it’s good. Remind me to write down this brand so I know what to buy next time.”

“Rick,” Daryl says softly. “We don’t gotta talk ‘bout this. Forget I brought it up. ‘s just-”

“No,” Rick protests. He licks his lips again. “No, we should talk about it. You’re right, it’s important, and I’m glad you made us talk first.”

“Ya don’t want to adopt, I get it,” Daryl mutters. He’s… much more disappointed than he thought he’d be. It was all just a daydream, he didn’t even seriously think it would happen. He must’ve been more attached to the adorable domestic fantasy than he expected, judging from the regretful pang in his chest.

Rick sighs and puts the chocolate away. “I’m not saying no,” he promises softly. “Darlin’, look at me now, please,” he demands.

Daryl looks at him, and he sees what he failed to notice before in his euphoria at being with his mate again: Rick seems… tired. Sure, he’s better than two days ago, but he’s still got bags under his eyes and there is still that underlying exhaustion hiding in his features, the tension of a man who’s dealing with trauma one day at a time.

No wonder he’s hesitant about taking care of a little pup. He’s barely managing to take care of himself. Well, Daryl’s back now. He’s ready to take care of Rick for as long as his mate needs the help.

“I want to have a baby with you,” Rick says firmly. Daryl inhales shakily, grateful that Rick  _ can’t  _ smell what the declaration is doing to the parts of him hidden in his pants. Thankfully, the baggy jeans he’s wearing are good enough to hide the sudden rush of blood to his nether regions. 

_ I want to have a baby with you,  _ fuck.Daryl’s hormones apparently really like the sound of these specific words from his mate.

“I want that a lot,” Rick adds, smiling. “Just… It’s a serious decision, darlin’. A serious decision I didn’t expect to have to make so soon. So I’m definitely not saying no, but I’m not saying yes either, not yet anyway. Give me some time to think it through?”

“All the time ya need,” Daryl promises eagerly. “If it ain’t somethin’ yer up to, then it’s fine. I don’t wanna press you into nothin’ ya don’t want, Rick. Not ever.”

Rick’s smile widens. “I know,” he says, and he steps right into Daryl’s space. He sighs in contentment when Daryl wraps both arms around his waist. 

“I had an appointment with a therapist today,” he reveals. “Michonne got me the appointment last minute, and she made me go. She’s scary, you know that?” He chuckles softly.

“I hated every minute of it. The therapist, she made me talk about what happened, and of course I couldn’t tell her the truth. At least not directly. It’s funny, but she thinks me having issues about um, the, you know. Sexual assault bit of it, as opposed to the losing my hand bit… Well, she says it’s normal. She says there ain’t no right or wrong way of being traumatized. It’s not a choice, I don’t get to pick what terrifies me and what doesn’t. And, um. She made me talk about the damn hand, anyway. And when I say she made me, I mean she asked about my feelings and I started talking, and I couldn’t shut up.”

Daryl nods. “It help any?” He asks. 

Rick presses a kiss to the side of his neck. “A lot, actually. For a moment there, I concentrated on the injury I can see, and you know, darlin’? I got this bright bandage to wrap it with, as a reminder that here’s the injury I survived. So it’s obvious what’s there and what isn’t. Draws attention, doesn’t it? And it’s actually comforting. Obviously, it sucks that I lost my hand, but I can live with that. I can learn to compensate for that. Hell, if I’m real dedicated, I can learn to do things better with my left hand than I ever could with the right.”

“Pffft, sure ya can,” Daryl informs him. “‘cause yer awesome. Just sayin’.”

“Mmm, I like it when you say nice things like that,” Rick says with a deep rumble that almost sounds like a purr in his voice. It’s incredibly sexy. Distracting. 

Everything about Rick is distracting, to be honest. 

“So yer, uh. Seein’ that therapist again, yeah?” Daryl asks.

Rick chuckles. “Yep,” he says, pressing the  _ p  _ into Daryl’s skin in a kiss. He’s definitely very aware of the effect he’s having on Daryl right now. He seems proud of himself, too, if the little self-satisfied smirk tugging on his lips when he looks up at Daryl is anything to go by. 

“Now, I believe I was promised  _ anything I want, _ ” he announces. “And right now, I want to see you naked in my bed. On your hands and knees would be best, I reckon. Think it can be arranged?”

_ Damn.  _ “Yeah,” Daryl breathes out. 

“Go on, then,” Rick says. There’s a tone of command in his voice that shines through even despite the softness on his face. It makes Daryl shiver. “You’d better be naked and waiting for me when I join you there.”

Daryl licks his lips and nods, then all but runs to the big bedroom, shedding clothing as he goes, dropping it anywhere. He’ll pick it up later; right now, he doesn’t care about trivial things like the mess he’s making. Rick wants him naked, so he’s gonna be naked.

He drops his jeans as he enters the bedroom, and he breathes in deeply. Rick’s scent is all over the room, musky and strong, reminding Daryl of what the sheets used to smell like when they were both in bed for hours on end, back during their two weeks of vacation. He licks his lips. Rick must’ve spent some alone time here since Daryl left yesterday. Must’ve touched himself, because Daryl knows that’s what he can smell, and fuck if it doesn’t make him even more aroused. Rick told him he was  _ thinking about it  _ before Daryl came home. Rick touched himself, thinking about him. Rick, laid out on the sheets, with his pretty eyes closed and his pretty lips parted, his hand working frantically if a little clumsily over the length of his cock,  _ fuck.  _

_ C’mon, I need you,  _ Daryl thinks desperately as he climbs on top of the bed and buries his face in the sheets to inhale more of Rick’s leftover scent. He’s not sure what it is exactly that makes him so damn needy right now, nor does he care; he just wants his mate. He groans softly, breathing out through his mouth, the sound becoming muffled by the bedsheets. Would Rick be angry if he touched himself? Just a little, just to take the edge off… but he shouldn’t, should he? Rick never said he could.

Rick said he wanted him to wait, so fuck it - Daryl’s gonna be waiting. 

He sighs and rubs his cheek into the pillow, then remembers the rest of Rick’s command:  _ on hands and knees. _ He’d never been in this position before when doing things with his mate; they’ve done everything facing each other so far. Arranging himself into the position Rick demanded, Daryl feels… strange. Kind of dumb, to be honest. He’s not sure if the sight he makes is attractive in any way. He tries to imagine Rick like this, instead, and,  _ okay,  _ he can see how that would be appealing. But then again, Rick always looks good. 

Where the hell is Rick, anyway?

He can faintly hear the sound of running water. Is Rick taking a shower? Damn him, making Daryl wait for so long. But also, Daryl begins to wonder if he should’ve taken a shower too. He took one in the morning at the motel, but that was before the several hours he’d spent in the truck with Jesus. Of course, since he’s hardly been eating lately, he didn’t need to have any bowel movements, and besides, he didn’t sweat or anything: it’s hardly hot enough yet to make him so much as take notice of the temperature. But still. Rick’s going to come to him all clean and fresh, and what if he’s disgusted?...

With a resigned sigh, letting the doubts win this time, Daryl gets up and heads upstairs to the unoccupied bathroom. He gives himself a perfunctory scrub, but pays more than enough attention to the important bits. He definitely doesn’t want Rick to have a subpar experience now that they’re going to be able to have sex again. Everything has to be perfect, like… like a damn wedding night.

He hurries back downstairs to the bedroom, still dripping wet - only to find Rick already there, sitting at the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a towel. He’s got an unreadable expression on his face.

“Were the instructions unclear, darlin’?” Rick asks, lifting a questioning eyebrow. His voice is low, but not exactly in a sexy way. More like in a slightly disappointed way.

Daryl licks his lips and looks down at his feet. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He’s not overly worried because despite the tone of his voice, Rick still smells deliciously of desire, which means Daryl hasn’t ruined everything.

“Well, make it up to me,” Rick demands firmly. 

Swallowing the excess saliva flooding his mouth, Daryl nods and slowly climbs the bed. He kneels around the middle and then leans forward, resting his head against the pillow. The exact position he takes means his butt is sticking in the air, and apparently, Rick’s very pleased with that development, judging by his loud intake of breath and the way his heartbeat picks up speed. It feels silly to be posed like this, but the effect it has on Rick is definitely worth it.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you look good,” Rick says softly. He moves on the bed: Daryl can feel the mattress dipping, hear the sheets rustling. He doesn’t touch just yet, though, and it’s awful, because Daryl can almost sense the way Rick’s eyes roam all over his body appreciatively, and it makes his face grow hot. He’s on full display like this, he realizes, all too late remembering from the porn he watched just what this position makes him look like; it’s not just his ass Rick can have a good look at, but also the other uh, important bits hanging heavily between his slightly spread legs. Daryl’s far from feeling self-conscious over what he looks like, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t be so open about parading around naked, but this… this is different. This is like being laid out in front of his mate like some sort of feast, and Rick doesn’t hesitate to feed himself on the sight in front of him. And he  _ really  _ likes what he’s seeing. 

“Rick,” Daryl mumbles into the pillow. The anticipation is unbearable; he doesn’t know what Rick is planning for him, and it makes him want to- He’s not sure. To do  _ something.  _ Anything that doesn’t involve waiting like this, feeling helpless. It’s a good helpless, though, a kind of helpless that sends a shiver down his spine when he thinks about how Rick is watching him and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He licks his lips and grips the pillow, then closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe evenly. 

“I haven’t decided what to do with you yet,” Rick admits breathlessly, chuckling to himself. He sounds a bit overwhelmed. “I want to do so many things. It’s hard to choose one.”

“Ain’t gotta be so hard,” Daryl mutters. “Still gonna be here later. We can do all the stuff you wanna.”

“Mmm, I like the way you think,” Rick replies. Finally, after what seemed to Daryl like a damn eternity, his hand makes contact with Daryl’s skin; it’s hesitant, that first touch, just a brush of fingertips against his calf, and Daryl sighs softly. The sound is apparently exactly what Rick needed, because he quickly becomes bolder: he shifts and presses himself firmly against Daryl’s backside, leaning against him both for the contact and for support - it must be harder to navigate all this with only one hand which is not even the dominant one, Daryl realizes. Rick manages just fine, though; pressed as he is into Daryl’s back, rubbing against him with his towel-covered groin, Rick groans softly and reaches around to take Daryl’s length in a firm hold. 

“Fuck, I think I changed my mind… Want this inside me tonight,” he says, giving the cock in his hand a long, leisurely stroke. 

Daryl whimpers, trying very hard not to shift too much. He doesn’t even care who does what, he likes either option just as much; he just wants to- he doesn’t know what. Rick apparently is just as conflicted; he rubs himself against Daryl’s backside one more time before he groans and lets go of his cock.

“You’re a pretty sight, but right now, I want you on your back,” he says urgently. 

Daryl obediently shifts and rolls over, and he grabs Rick as he goes to pull him into a long, deep kiss.  _ This  _ is what he was missing. Fuck. He pushes his tongue inside his mate’s mouth, tasting the minty remnants of toothpaste and that sweet something that might’ve been a chocolatey snack Rick had before Daryl returned home. Rick returns the kiss with fervor that matches Daryl’s perfectly, and he makes a soft, breathless noise into his mouth as he wraps both arms around Daryl’s shoulders. They move their hips almost in sync with each other, desperate for more contact; Daryl pulls on the towel around Rick’s hips until it’s gone, and he grunts in satisfaction when his hands meet naked skin instead. The continue to kiss as Daryl rolls them over again, until Rick’s the one with his back on the sheets and Daryl’s on top of him, straddling his thighs and grinding against him in slow but forceful thrusts.

“Fuck, yes,” Rick whispers into his mouth. He moans brokenly when Daryl wraps his hand around both their lengths, tugging on them together; groaning, he buries his face in the crook of Daryl’s neck and lets out soft little huffs of breath, almost soundless. He presses wet little kisses into Daryl’s skin, and Daryl groans and cups Rick’s jaw with his free hand, directing him into another deep, demanding kiss. Rick responds immediately, and he moves his left arm to wrap his hand around Daryl’s on their cocks, and it’s tight and warm and wet enough from how they’re both leaking, and Daryl moans something that might be  _ I love you  _ or  _ yeah, fuck,  _ or something else entirely, and then he swallows Rick’s answering moan as his mate’s sudden orgasm triggers his own, too. 

He sighs in contentment and collapses on top of Rick, chuckling softly when the man pushes weakly at his chest, pretending to wheeze from Daryl’s weight. When it doesn’t work, Rick changes tactics and tries to tickle his side, and it works spectacularly well: Daryl immediately rolls to his back and grabs Rick’s wrist to protect himself from further assault. He looks at his mate and smiles, unable to contain the joy spreading in his chest.

“I love you,” he says.

Rick laughs softly. “Oh, sure you do. You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

“From what?” Daryl asks, blinking. He pulls on Rick’s wrist gently, urging his mate to cuddle with him. He likes cuddling. They both do. 

“From the fact you were supposed to  _ fuck me,  _ love, and you didn’t,” Rick says, but he sounds more amused than annoyed. He even gives up being stubborn after a moment, and he snuggles up to Daryl, lying down half on top of his chest. He finds that towel he had around his hips earlier and uses it to wipe off the remnants of their orgasms from their bellies, then throws the towel aside and settles down.

Daryl kisses his forehead. “Don’cha worry, Rick. We got all night, an’ forever after that,” he says, and it’s a promise. 


	45. Chapter 45

Daryl misses the exact moment of Carl’s arrival on account of still being asleep in Rick’s bed after the previous night’s vigorous activities. When Rick said he wanted to do _ everything _ to him, Daryl sort of assumed he meant _ over time _ or _ in the near but not immediate future, _ but apparently, Rick actually meant _ as soon as possible, preferably now. _Which, obviously, Daryl wasn’t going to complain about at the time, but it eventually really wore him out.

He’s really impressed with Rick’s willpower this morning, though; he couldn’t have repeated his mate’s deed even if he wanted to. He easily slept through Rick’s alarm, as well as through his mate’s struggles to get out of bed whilst being completely wrapped in Daryl’s loving and possibly quite overbearing embrace. The thing is, it was the best night they’ve had in a while. Not just because of the sex; it was the first time since the hospital when Rick didn’t have a nightmare. Once he fell asleep, he slept undisturbed until he got up in the morning. 

The sex was great, too, obviously. But Rick not having nightmares beats even that.

Groaning, Daryl finally gets out of bed. He glances at the clock and notes it’s almost noon, which marks a new record of laziness for him. He’s never had the need to sleep for so long. He supposes it’s a testament to how enthusiastic Rick was about tiring him out at night. Just the thought of it makes him lick his lips as arousal stirs slowly in his abdomen. 

_ No, _he admonishes himself mentally, more because he can hear voices talking somewhere in the house than for any other particular reason. 

There’s a neat little pile of clothes laid out on the nightstand, with a note pinned to the t-shirt at the top:

**_Please_** _ get dressed. You’re beautiful naked, but it’s a sight for my eyes only. -R _

The _ please _is underlined twice, so Daryl decides to be a good mate. He takes a quick shower in the adjoining bathroom, then puts the clothes on. It’s not like it’s a big hardship or anything; a t-shirt and a pair of jeans never killed anybody, as far as he’s aware. Besides, nudity around pups isn’t very proper, he’s heard. Daryl definitely doesn’t want to do anything to make Carl feel unwelcome; if that means he has to make sure to always cover his bits, so be it. He’s made bigger sacrifices for smaller gains.

He leaves the bathroom and heads towards the kitchen-slash-dining area where he can hear the voices. Even before he arrives there, he already knows there’s someone else besides Carl there: he can hear a woman talking to the boy. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t heard her voice before, so at least he can be reasonably certain she’s not Lori. That would be awkward.

He walks into the kitchen and is immediately greeted by Carl’s enthusiastic exclamation of his name. The pup grins so wide and bright it makes him look almost exactly like his daddy at his happiest, and he runs straight into Daryl’s waiting arms for a _ hello _sort of hug. It’s a routine they sort of developed in those couple of days the boy was here after the hospital. Clearly, Carl really likes hugs, and Daryl isn’t some kind of monster who’d deny him. 

“Hello there, lil’ shark,” he says with a smirk. 

“Hi Daryl,” Carl replies. He turns his head and calls out, “Grandma, Grandma, this is Daryl! He’s Dad’s boyfriend!”

“I can definitely see why,” says the woman standing by the counter, looking Daryl up and down with a merry twinkle in her sky-blue eyes. Same eyes as Carl’s. As Rick’s.

“Mother, please,” Rick mutters, coming in from outside where he was probably watering the cacti, judging by the empty bottle in his hand.

“Don’t you _ mother please _ me, Rick, when you know what I’m saying is true,” says Rick’s mother, rolling her eyes. 

She’s a good-looking woman. Middle-aged, maybe around fifty-something years old. Definitely younger than Lucille, which means she must have been quite young when she had Rick. She’s got the same curls as her son, though longer and much grayer. Makes Daryl wonder what Rick’s father looked like; what features his mate inherited from his other parent.

“Hello, Daryl. I’m Martha, and between the two of us, I think you’re a grand step up from Rick’s former wife.”

“Ain’t hard, she cheated on him,” Daryl replies without thinking. He blinks and licks his lips. “Uh… I mean. Hi Martha. Rick’s mama. Ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

“Aww, he’s adorable, too,” Martha Grimes coos, and offers Daryl a cup of coffee he doesn’t have the courage to decline. He sets Carl down and ruffles the pup’s hair playfully, muttering a soft _ thanks _for the coffee, which he then hands to Rick as discreetly as it is possible in full view.

“So, Daryl, tell me about yourself. I’d like to know the man who’s dating my boy,” Rick’s mother demands, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. 

Daryl shrugs and sits down too. “Ain’t much to know,” he says. “I’m, uh, sorta jus’ a janitor in the aquarium down at Alexandria Institute. Sometimes I lead tours ‘cause I know shi… uh, _ stuff, _about sharks.”

“He knows _ everything, _” Carl chimes in, beaming at Daryl.

Daryl doesn’t deny it even though it’s probably obvious he can’t know everything at all. He just gives the boy a smile that he thinks might be a little crooked from how hard he’s trying not to full-on _ grin. _Carl doesn’t know about his true nature yet, and Rick’s mother definitely doesn’t know, which means Daryl should work hard to keep it hidden, at least for the time being. He’s gotten used to not having to pretend, to be honest. Frighteningly so. It’s a bit disgruntling to realize how the behaviors learned throughout his whole life fell away so swiftly over the course of just a few weeks when he didn’t have to remember about them. 

He hopes he doesn’t slip up. 

“Excuse my nosiness, but you don’t sound local,” Martha notes.

She doesn’t ask any questions, though, so Daryl isn’t sure if she expects him to say something or not. This is why conversations are difficult to navigate, damn it. Why can’t people just say what’s on their mind? 

Helplessly, Daryl casts a quick look at Rick, who gives him an apologetic smile and turns to Martha. “Mother,” he says, “if you want to know something, you have to actually ask. And no, Daryl isn’t from here. He’s from Georgia, but further west.”

It’s not necessarily true - Daryl actually isn’t sure where exactly they used to live when he was a toddler, before his daddy decided to move them far away from the ocean; but he supposes the cabin near Greater Whites is as much his place of origin as anything can be. The way he talks, it’s how both his parents talked. Will Dixon was definitely from Georgia, he used to say so. Nadine… Daryl isn’t sure, he’s going to have to ask Lucille, but he thinks she was from the South too. Lucille lives in Atlanta, so that’s gotta mean something.

“So, you’re gorgeous, you have a stable source of income, Carl obviously adores you, and my Rick can’t seem to stop staring at you even though you’re in polite company,” Martha sums up. She nods. “Okay. I approve. Welcome to the family, Daryl. I expect you’re going to propose soon. You have my blessing.”

“Mother!” Rick exclaims, blushing furiously. 

“What?” Martha asks. She sounds both defensive and offensive simultaneously, if that’s even a thing. She shrugs. “The sooner you’re married again, the sooner I can tell Helen to fuck right off about her eligible daughters. You should hear that woman! Ah, Carl, you didn’t hear me swearing right now, okay?”

“Okay, Grandma,” Carl agrees pleasantly. There’s a gleeful glint in his eyes. 

“Great. When he starts swearing left and right, I’ll know who to blame,” Rick mutters darkly.

“Me,” Daryl says, and at the same time, Carl says:

“Daryl!”

They look at each other and chuckle. Yeah, Daryl knows he uses a lot of obscenities. Most of them unnecessarily. So fucking what? Sophia never picked up his foul language even though Daryl’s helped raise her. Carl is a smart pup; he’ll know what not to repeat in more polite company. What is it with parents always shielding their pups from stupid shit like swear words and animals eating each other? None of that’s gonna break their psyches or whatever. There are literally millions of more fucked up things going on in the world. 

Speaking of animals eating other animals, “I gotta drop by the Institute today, see how Henry and Lydia are doin’. Y’all wanna come along? I could give ya a personalized tour.”

He only says it to make sure the subject of his inevitable proposal to Rick is dropped for the time being; that’s a private matter between the two of them. As far as he’s concerned, they’re already as good as married, and Rick said something along these lines too; still, Daryl wants to make sure they’re actually married one day, in the way that’s legal for humans. But that doesn’t mean he wants to discuss it with anyone, and especially not with a woman he only just met - even if she’s Rick’s own mother.

He remembers a second too late that it’s probably a very bad idea to offer to take a family to see sharks after its member lost his hand to a shark only some two weeks ago. Admittedly, the shark in question was human-shaped, but neither Carl nor Martha Grimes know that. And Rick did mention he’s become terrified of sharks, including - but presumably not limited to - those who look like people. So. Yeah. Bad idea.

Carl, however, visibly brightens even more. “I want to go!” He announces, and he looks at his father hopefully. “Can we go? Please?”

“How about you two go with Daryl,” Rick suggests, “and I finally get some writing done? I’m going to have something to show for myself when I’m looking for a new agent.”

“What happened to the old one, anyway?” Martha asks, frowning. 

For some reason, everybody looks to Daryl for an answer, including Rick. Daryl blinks. “He, uh,” he says, stuttering. “He went to Africa to, um. Save the depletin’ marine populations. For charity. Something about orca feedin’ pools.”

He’s got no idea why he said that; the moment he started talking, he couldn’t help himself. The morbid and very tasteless mention of orcas gets a chuckle out of Rick, at least; a sort-of horrified kind of chuckle, accompanied by a wide-eyed, startled look, but still. 

“Orcas are creepy bastards,” Carl says, nodding sagely along to the words. Daryl can vaguely remember having said something along those lines back when he was leading the group from Atlanta on the tour. Boy has a good memory. 

And, sure, he’s correct. Eric might not be so creepy as all that, he hasn’t shown himself to secretly want to eat Daryl’s liver after all, but one exception doesn’t mean anything. And besides, he is quite terrifying in the water. Daryl can attest to that.

“So, aquarium? Ma’am?” He asks to bring the topic back to something more relevant and less, well, disturbing. He looks at Rick’s mother questioningly. 

The woman sighs, then nods. “I guess I don’t have a choice. Carl looks about ready to jump out of his skin if we don’t go.”

“Will Sophia be there?” Carl asks quickly.

Pleased to hear the eagerness in the pup’s tone, Daryl smiles. “Can be,” he says. “School’s out for her, too. Just gotta text her to let her know.”

“She promised to lend me an encycle… podium? About sharks,” Carl says, frowning a little when the long word doesn’t exactly come out right. 

“Encyclopedia,” Rick corrects him, and puts a plate in front of Daryl. Apparently he was sneakily making sandwiches when nobody was looking. He can’t cook, he’s said so many times, but he _ can _make a mean sandwich. 

“Eat up, darlin’,” he says. “Mother, why don’t you go upstairs and help Carl unpack while Daryl has his breakfast? Then the three of you can go have your fun.”

“You just want a moment alone with your sweetheart,” Martha teases light-heartedly. She gets up and nods to Carl. “Come on, little man. Show me that fancy new room of yours.”

Carl grabs his grandmother’s hand and leads her towards the stairs, and Rick watches them go with a gentle smile. He shakes his head when the two disappear from sight. 

“Sorry about this,” he says softly. “I should’ve warned you my mother was coming. I literally forgot, or I would’ve told you.”

“I don’t mind,” Daryl replies, shrugging. Since the coast is clear, he has no inhibitions stopping him from devouring a plateful of turkey sandwiches in record time, with maybe two bites per sandwich. Hell, but he missed food that’s actually good. The burger in Greater Whites was abysmal and the greasy stuff in the diner on the way home was, well, okay, but nothing to write home about. The sandwiches are great, not only because the turkey meat is on the right side of uncooked - as in, it’s completely raw, the way Daryl likes it - but also because Rick made them for him. Somehow, that adds a lot to the flavor.

“You know, I love watching you eat,” Rick comments, amusement lacing his warm tone. “It’s just the right combination of adorable and absolutely terrifying.”

Daryl freezes with the last sandwich halfway-bitten through. “Ugh,” he says with his mouth full.

“Finish your food,” Rick suggests. “‘cause I sort of want to kiss you, and I can’t do that when you’ve got raw turkey between your teeth.”

Well, a kiss from Rick is always a good incentive to do anything, so Daryl quickly swallows down the sandwich and does his best to suck the bits of raw meat from where they’ve gotten stuck between his pointy teeth. Once he’s done, he licks his lips.

“Kiss me,” he demands.

Rick laughs softly, but he comes closer, leans down and places a gentle peck on Daryl’s lips. He tries to back off almost immediately, but Daryl isn’t having his teasing; he wraps his arms around his mate’s waist and pulls him in close, capturing his mouth in a properly slow, very thorough kiss; Rick, for his part, doesn’t even attempt to protest. He just tangles his hand in Daryl’s hair and groans softly into the kiss, like this was exactly what he was waiting for. 

Probably was. Contrary fucker. 

When they part a few moments later, Rick breathes in and out heavily. His eyes are glazed over, and he smells wonderfully of arousal and a lazy sort of joy, like… like a late morning in bed, or a slow walk in the sunset. Something like that. _ Love, _Daryl thinks. If love has a scent, this is it. 

“I needed this,” Rick says contentedly. He brushes a few strands of hair off of Daryl’s face and cups his cheek. The gesture is maybe a little more awkward, less smooth with the left hand than it would’ve been with the right, but it doesn’t matter. Daryl still leans into the touch, closing his eyes in pleasure. He just likes the gentle warmth at Rick’s fingertips.

“So, writin’, huh? Ya really gonna do that, or just don’t wanna see no sharks just yet?” He asks, looking up at Rick.

“A little bit of both,” Rick admits sheepishly. “I’ve got a daily goal of at least a thousand words, so I’d like to try and meet that.”

“Seems a lot,” Daryl says, blinking. “Dunno if I _ know _a thousand damn words.”

“Sure you do,” Rick replies, rolling his eyes fondly. “On average, adults know between twenty to thirty thousand words.”

“Don’t seem true,” Daryl protests. He thinks about it, but no matter what, the figures seem majorly exaggerated.

“Darlin’, three-year-olds know around a thousand words,” Rick informs him with a smile.

Daryl shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “_ Gaga _ and _ pee-pee _ain’t real words.”

“I don’t know what three-year-olds you’ve been around recently, but I assure you, Carl was much more eloquent than that at three,” Rick huffs, shaking his head. He’s obviously exasperated with Daryl’s stubborn refusal to accept his words. 

And yeah, Daryl’s pulling his leg a bit. He knows what pups sound like at three years of age, or at least he knows what Sophia sounded like. 

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Rick mutters, and he pouts. 

Fuck, but he looks both cute and sexy when he does that. Daryl can’t help but stare at his pretty lips and lick his own in turn. Rick’s gaze is inevitably drawn to the motion of Daryl’s tongue, and then without preamble, they’re kissing again. Rick lets out a low groan into Daryl’s mouth, moving his hand to tangle in Daryl’s long hair, and both of Daryl’s migrate down to Rick’s hips, then back to cup his butt and squeeze. 

Rick laughs into the kiss, and Daryl grins, winking at him as he pinches one supple butt cheek. They break apart to laugh at each other, and Rick playfully hits Daryl’s arm with his blue-bandaged stump. He winces for an instant, like he forgot that even the slightest impact is still painful; it hasn’t been long enough since he sustained the wound for it to have fully healed. Daryl takes his arm in a gentle hold and places a series of very careful kisses all over the bandage. Rick tenses against him.

“Doesn’t it disgust you?” He asks softly, looking away as if embarrassed. 

Somehow, this subject didn’t come up at all last night; when Rick had trouble doing something one-handed, Daryl wordlessly assisted him, and neither of them drew attention to the fact he was handicapped in any way. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Daryl should’ve showered the wounded limb with kisses from the start to show Rick how he doesn’t find him any less beautiful now.

He shakes his head. “‘s a battle wound,” he says. “‘sides, even if it wasn’t. My scars don’t disgust you neither. Why would yers disgust me?”

“You’re not missing any pieces,” Rick points out, but he sounds less insecure than just a moment before. He relaxes again, and sighs in contentment when Daryl presses another little kiss just above the edge of the bandage, over the inner side of his elbow.

Daryl says: “Yer perfect to me,” and he means it. 

“You’re a sap,” Rick grumbles. He finally steps away from Daryl’s loving embrace and up to the counter. He bites his lower lip briefly, then asks: “You okay with entertaining Carl and my mother for the day?”

“Yeah,” Daryl assures him. He’s fine with it. Rick’s mother doesn’t disapprove of him, Carl is his favorite pup right after Sophia, and there are sharks where they’re going. Plus, he’s going to ask Sophia to come, too. Of course, he’s going to miss Rick; he’s already admitted to himself there’s no way he can go an hour without missing his mate. But he’s excited anyway, not only about seeing his shark friends, but most of all about the fact Rick is going to try writing again. He hasn’t been able to do that since the lab. That he wants to - that he’s actually eager to hit his daily word goal or whatever - it means everything. 

“You’re amazin,” Daryl says, smiling when his mate looks at him over his shoulder. He doesn’t get to elaborate on the matter, however, because:

“Daaaaaaaaaad!” Carl shouts from upstairs. “What is this bag on my bed? It’s not mine!”

“I think he found your gift,” Rick notes with amusement. “You should go and tell him you bought him a console.”

“Yeah, right. Ain’t gonna do that in front a’ yer mama. She’s gonna think I’m bribin’ him,” Daryl scoffs. 

“Well, I think you’re bribing him,” Rick informs him, grinning. “And I think if it was during the school year, I’d have you take the console back. It’s a time thief.”

“Nah, ain’t so bad,” Daryl protests, “Sophia has one of those. Don’t stop her bein’ the best student ever.”

“Is Sophia _ not _the best at anything, for you?” Rick asks curiously.

Daryl glares at him, though without much conviction. “Shush it. Go tell yer family I’m gonna be waitin’ outside.”

“Okay, okay,” Rick agrees, chuckling. He moves to go upstairs, but pauses before he leaves the kitchen. He looks back at Daryl. “You know they can be your family too, though, right? If you want it, it’s yours.”

Daryl knows, and he wants it, and he’s sure Rick knows it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .. I don't know how many chapters this is gonna be. Seriously.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on tumblr at most--curiously--blue--eyes :D


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